


The Thrill of the Hunt

by Penwyn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 100,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penwyn/pseuds/Penwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Draco Malfoy is named the last surviving pureblooded wizard in Europe, a mysterious underworld trader and collector known as M. takes an interest in adding him to a true world-class collection of dangerous magical creatures. Harry Potter must juggle the last of his Auror training, a failing relationship with Ginny Weasley, and a growing issue with alcoholism while managing to keep Draco from being captured and trying to follow a decades-old trail which will lead to the identity and location of M. before it's too late.</p><p><b>Book Featured:</b> <span class="u">Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Thrill of the Hunt: Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vlvtnightmare](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=vlvtnightmare).



> Featuring a Franzia-chugging Draco who’s obsessed with Rachael Ray on the Food Network, a gritty and oblivious Harry, and a strong, empowered Ginny who’s a very important person to the both of them. I hope I’ve fulfilled your prompt to your wildest dreams, as this one got away from me and ended up being a full-length novel. I really, really liked doing this. It took my life over for well over a month, and there’s art that I’ve done which will accompany it when authors are revealed and I post it to my own accounts. This was intended to be highly illustrated, but I don’t know that I could do enough art to fill everything that’s important. I will also be adding shorter one-shots to this universe after the reveal on my AO3 that will be deliciously smutty and go into what would have made this too long to finish without a number of extensions.

 

[](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Fantastic_beasts.JPG)   
Cover Design of the 2001 edition  


***Part One***  
  
 _There is no hunting like the hunting of man,_  
 _and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it,_  
 _never care for anything else thereafter._  
Ernest Hemingway

PUREBLOODED WIZARD

_M.O.M. Classification: X-XXXXX_

Pureblooded wizards are a dwindling population of humans who have and have always had nothing but magical blood in their direct pedigrees. There has been no interbreeding with those of nonmagical or mixed blood in the direct line of ancestry in recorded history.

There is a significant amount of evidence that those witches and wizards with unmixed blood have available to them magic which may only be passed through family lines. There are documented cases up to the 16th century AD which show that specific abilities and powers, including but not limited to metamorphmagism, animagism, and the Sight, were highly sought after in wizarding families and were only passed on genetically. Many marriages and births were arranged in order to bring out these inherent abilities in the families which possessed them. Documentation of such breeding after the 16th century has not been found, though the practice is considered by the academic community to have been practiced as recently as the 19th century.

Different sources of unmixed blood gave rise to different magical abilities; for example, the English Blacks have a number of notable Metamorphmagi in their family trees. While this trait may be expressed in various other places throughout the wizarding population worldwide, it is usually traceable back to early Black heritage. Witches and wizards with unmixed blood have a much higher likelihood to express family traits.

Due to the war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, wizards and witches with unmixed blood have been stigmatized and revelations of nonmagical interbreeding have come to light in most previously “pure” lines. It is the opinion of academics that there is only one European wizard with a truly pure direct line of magical ability who survived the war—Draco Lucius Malfoy ( _M.O.M. Classification: XXXX_ ), of both Black and Malfoy heritage. Other wizards and witches with unmixed blood may be found worldwide, though they are classified as scarce.

 

*

The realisation that one is alone in the world is one of the most difficult things to accept.

Draco Malfoy had never been alone, not really. He had felt alone, certainly, when he was by himself in his father’s library at six years old and unable to see the top of the shelves. He had felt alone on his broomstick, the first time he had gathered the courage to fly higher than ten feet above the ground when he was nine, when he’d flown nearly a mile into the air and screamed and realised that no one could hear him. He had felt alone when he was in sixth year, and he had to repair a Vanishing Cabinet or see his whole family slaughtered before he was himself bathed in green light.

He hadn’t been alone then, not really. He knew that as he stood over the twin coffins of his father and mother, as the man in black spoke words that were likely beautiful and didn’t mean a damned thing. That was the point of a eulogy—they were beautiful and kind and reverent of the dead. No one knew Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy like Draco Malfoy did, but when his turn to speak had come, there were no words. Had there been words, they would have been kind but honest, and he wasn’t sure that there would have been much beauty to them with how raw he felt in those moments. He was grateful for the reverence in the man’s tone, that someone had something nice to say about his parents. Perhaps they deserved that, in the end.

He scooped up a handful of dirt and spilled it on his father’s coffin, then did the same for his mother’s. They were lowered into their graves, and Draco felt his blood run cold as twin thumps marked his parents lying in their final places. The mourners filed away, and Draco watched the gravediggers fill in the perfect rectangular holes in the graveyard. They left, too, after their job was done, and Draco stood in place with his vision unfocused.

It was then that Draco knew without a shred of a doubt that he was really, truly alone in the world.

 

*

Harry Potter always did what was expected of him. That was one of the things that Ginny Weasley loved best about him. She never had to wonder when he was going to come home, when he was going to get up in the morning, or what he would do when they argued. He came home from work every day at six o’clock in the evening, got out of bed at seven in the morning, and when they argued, he apologized by bringing her flowers and kissing her on her shoulder with an apologetic smile and promises of dinner.

The war was over, and Ginny was very happy. Harry had gone into Auror training without any need of taking his NEWTs, and she had completed her seventh year at Hogwarts before taking her own NEWTs. In the year it took her to finish her classes, Harry had bought an apartment in London near the Ministry of Magic; he’d asked her at Christmas if she would like to live with him when she graduated. She had accepted without a second thought, and they had lived together for a year and a half now.

It was harder than she’d thought it would be. Fairy tales always ended when the prince rode off with his princess into the sunset; they never said anything about what happily ever after really entailed. It turned out that happily ever after was light on the happy and very heavy on everything else. Molly had warned her that it was a bad idea to move in with Harry when they were so young, but Ginny wasn’t the type to listen when the advice stood between her and the only thing she had ever wanted.

She loved Harry Potter, and he loved her. She had no doubt about that. There was, however, something unexpected about Harry that had shocked her and, perhaps, disappointed her a little. In school, Harry had been casual about his work, loyal to his cause and to his friends, and he could always be counted on to skive off instead of doing assignments in favour of being with his friends and with her. It wasn’t like that after Hogwarts.

Harry Potter was a workaholic. He came home at six o’clock and pored over files, making notes and squinting at papers until it was bedtime. Some days, he could hardly be bothered to eat dinner.

It wasn’t like that at first, but the honeymoon period didn’t last as long as Ginny had hoped. She’d moved in and Harry was all passion, coming home at lunch to fall into bed with her. “We have all the time in the world to talk and know each other,” he’d whispered to her. “I don’t want to waste a moment.”

It seemed that Harry was always bringing home flowers and making his apologies.

Hermione had laughed at her when she’d brought up her concerns over it—she knew the situation well, as Ron had taken the same path as Harry had once the war was over. “Oh, Ginny,” she’d sighed at her over the table, smiling in a way that made Ginny want to scream. “They have so much work. Auror training is hard. There’s a reason that there aren’t a lot of them, you know. We just have to let them get through it and be there for them. I’m just glad that Ronald has some focus on something.”

Ron clearly had focus on more than work, however; Ginny knew that he and Hermione were talking about having a baby. They’d married just that summer, and Molly was more than eager for another grandchild. Ginny wanted to wait a while before she had a baby, but she wouldn’t be opposed to a diamond ring on her finger. Harry didn’t seem like he would be asking any time soon.

She told everyone that she understood why he hadn’t asked her yet. Now just wasn’t the time to get married; Harry was so busy at work and couldn’t take the time off, and didn’t they have their whole lives to seal the deal? Wasn’t love enough to sustain her for now?

Some days, she thought that it wasn’t. For now, she took her greatest fulfilment from news of the systematic downfall of those who had surrounded Voldemort during the war, and she had a thrill in her heart nearly every time she picked up the paper. This week was especially fulfilling for Ginny, and she’d had a song on her lips since Monday morning’s Daily Prophet.

LUCIUS AND NARCISSA MALFOY CAPTURED, KILLED BY AURORS

They had been on the run since Voldemort had died. Draco had got off easy—he was placed on probation with the defence that he was coerced into taking the Dark Mark, that he had been too young to realise the enormity of his situation—but his parents had been running all over Europe from Aurors since the battle at Hogwarts. Ginny thought that Draco should’ve been thrown in Azkaban, but Harry had stepped forward at Draco’s trials and spoken for him.

A dozen roses hadn’t been enough that day. Ginny threatened to leave Harry over it. She still held it against him, but when Monday’s Prophet had landed on their kitchen table and she’d read the story of the standoff between the Malfoys and the authorities, her heart was at ease for the first time in a long time. She could forgive Harry now, because there was no fear in her that he would try to testify on Narcissa’s behalf. He wouldn’t even get the chance.

That way of thinking, she knew, wasn’t healthy.

 

*

Harry loved being an Auror-in-training. There had never been anything so fulfilling to him as hunting dark wizards and witches, and now that he was out of school, he had the resources to do it the way it should have been done. Ever since he was eleven, he had been doing it in some capacity; he’d even killed Voldemort, after all. Knowing what he knew now, he wondered how he hadn’t bungled it and lost the war. He’d been so stupid about things back then.

He and Ron were being trained by none other than Kingsley Shacklebolt himself, and they had quickly turned from being stupid kids who had some vague idea of what they should be doing. Now, they knew how to disguise themselves, how to really duel in a dangerous situation, how to save another wizard from fatal curses, how to protect themselves without getting anyone else killed, and countless other things. Harry had a special knack for brewing poisons, thanks to his Potions revelation in his sixth year, and Ron was a wonder at concealment. They would be finishing their training program at the beginning of June, and then they would be considered real Aurors, licenses and all. They vowed that they would be partners when they first started, and they had every intention of keeping that oath.

Harry loved his work, and Kingsley was always admonishing him for taking it home with him every day. “You’ve got to have some downtime, Harry. How’s Ginny?”

“She’s fine, Kingsley. Everything’s great, and I already told you that I won’t rest until every one of the Death Eaters is locked away.” Except for Draco, of course. He’d testified in his favour, telling the Wizengamot of how Draco had tried to conceal his identity from Bellatrix Lestrange and how he’d been forced into taking the Mark to save his family and himself. He was looking forward to when the Ministry would capture Narcissa, because he wanted more than anything to stand at her trial and tell them how she’d personally ensured that he could kill Voldemort. He didn’t care if Lucius rotted in the ground.

Ginny didn’t like his plan, but he knew she’d get over it. He wasn’t willing to compromise on that point. He owed her a life debt.

Now, the Malfoys were dead, and Harry felt awful about it. He’d even gone to the funeral, where there hadn’t been very many in attendance, and he’d spoken about Narcissa and her role in the final battle. He’d spoken about how, even though he had never had any great affection for any of the Malfoys, he knew that they valued family. Having never had one of his very own, he respected that. Draco hadn’t even looked at him when he’d spoken—his eyes never left the coffins.

Draco Malfoy was an orphan. Harry Potter felt his loss keenly, even if he really didn’t like the git at all. After the funeral was over, Harry stayed for a long time, sitting in one of the chairs on the lawn of the graveyard and watching Draco stand silent guard over his parents’ bodies. He wanted to say something to him, anything that might be of some comfort, and he wrestled with the words. He had never been very good at speaking words of sympathy.

No one had spoken to Draco at the funeral; he’d made it clear through his body language that he didn’t want to be coddled or fawned over. He’d acted as though he was the only person in the graveyard. None of the words reached his ears, Harry was sure.

It was nearing six o’clock, and Harry got out of his chair. He approached his old enemy quietly and stood next to him, looking down at the fresh mounds of dirt that seemed so small for containing such larger-than-life people. He raised his hand, and he put it on Draco’s shoulder. He realised then that there really was nothing that he could say.

Draco flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away from it; his eyes turned to Harry and it seemed to take him a few moments before he recognised who it was he was seeing. They looked at one another in silence for a moment, and Harry sighed. “Do you want to go for a pint?” No apologies, no insults, no forced sympathy—just an offer of beer.

Any other time, Draco would have stared at Harry as though he’d grown a second head. This time, however, he closed his eyes and seemed to gather himself before he nodded his head. “Please.” His voice was ragged and raw, as though he’d spent the night before screaming himself hoarse.

They walked out of the graveyard together in solemn silence. Six o’clock ticked by, and Harry Potter wasn’t walking in his front door; however, he was sitting in a pub with the person he liked least in the world, watching him drown his sorrows in a mixture of ale and vodka. Harry held back his precious hair when he vomited in the back alley, and he took him to his big, empty Manor when he was too drunk to stop crying.

He made sure that the house elves put Draco on his side to sleep, and he went home with two dozen roses. Some things were more important than being home in time for dinner, and for once, Draco Malfoy had been on that list. Ginny couldn’t understand what it was like to lose both parents, hadn’t had to endure even one of them being gone. While Harry hadn’t cried or even mentioned Lucius and Narcissa to Draco over their pints, he knew what it was like as surely as he knew anything in the world.

“You’re late.”

Somehow, it was two in the morning when Harry came in the door with roses, and he swallowed hard as he saw Ginny sitting at the table with dinner spread over it. She got promptly to her feet and walked over to him, ignoring the flowers he offered forth and leaning up to smell his breath. “And you’re drunk.”

Harry slept on the couch for three days.

 

*

The war had been over for over two years, and the wizarding world in Europe was very different for it. No longer was ‘Mudblood’ a bad term; in fact, it was worn as a badge of honour for those who had endured the terror of the Dark Lord’s reign. It had been reclaimed, and it was something that was even fashionable. Purebloods were so stigmatized that even those families who had proudly proclaimed their blood status as pure before and during the war were coming out about interbreeding with Muggles in their lines; witches and wizards even seemed to be seeking out Muggles in particular for romantic partners.

Everyone had a Muggle in their lineage. Everyone was, to some extent, a Mudblood.

Hermione never got used to hearing it. It still carried the sting it had the first time she’d heard it spat out of Draco Malfoy’s mouth, and if she’d been younger, she’d have liked to rub it in his face now. Instead, she worried for him. She hadn’t worried for him before Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them had been updated; even then, she had been somewhat amused. Ron had had a field day with it. Harry, however, had listened to her when she’d said that the entry in the book made her nervous, because there were people out there who got weird about that sort of thing.

Harry was worried, too, because he knew for a fact that there were such people. The hard evidence was sitting in front of him on his desk.

“Check this out.” Ron had thrown the parchment down on the growing disaster that was Harry’s work area, and even he wasn’t smiling so much about it.

_My dearest Mr Shacklebolt,_

_Soon, I will be growing my collection. I always wondered what it would be like to keep a wizard in my zoo._

_You know how I love to keep things interesting. Maybe you’ll keep up this time._

_Yours,_

_M._

M. was something of a legend in the Auror Office, though it wasn’t a particularly flattering legend. He called himself a collector of rare beasts; what he was in actuality was a black market trader who dealt in the trafficking of dangerous creatures across borders and oceans. For years, he had been sending Kingsley gloating letters of his newest acquisition or sale, but his letters were spelled untraceable and none of the Aurors (or anyone else, it seemed) had ever seen him. He seemed to take a particular pleasure in leading the Aurors around in his game, leaving clues and giving puzzles but always being gone by the time they were solved. By Kingsley’s reckoning, he was in possession of a Tebo, a Quintaped, a Demiguise, at least two restricted breeds of dragons, and plenty of others. Most of his creatures were restricted, not to mention highly dangerous.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. It had been two months since the funeral, and he hadn’t heard anything from Malfoy since; he knew that someone ought to warn him to keep on his guard. M. wasn’t known for missing his targets. Unfortunately, that was about as much about him as they knew. The Office had been working on tracking him for well over twenty years, and they’d never found anything more than cooling sheets and blood. He kept one step ahead at every turn, and it was embarrassing for the department.

“Reckon we ought to tell him,” Harry said, but Ron shook his head and threw down a copy of the Daily Prophet.

“No need. Page three.”

Harry opened the paper and stared at the page in question—M. had purchased a full-page ad, featuring a picture of Draco Malfoy sitting in his gardens reading. A copy of his letter was scrawled over the bottom of the photograph, the impeccable handwriting somehow seeming menacing even in the safety of the Auror Office. “Well, shit. That looks recent. What’s Kingsley say about it?”

Ron sat down in his chair and idly spun in a circle in the seat, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. “He’s working it out now. I suspect he’ll put some senior Aurors on it. Then again, he hates Malfoy as much as anybody; maybe he’ll give the old codger this one as a gift.” He laughed. “Damn if I wouldn’t like to be the one to catch him in the act, though. Wouldn’t that be something? They’d carve my name into the walls here. I could retire on the reward.”

Harry looked over at his best friend and couldn’t help smiling a little, too. “I think Kingsley’d tattoo your name on his arse. You should ask to go on the detail.” He didn’t dare ask himself; Ginny would go mental if he got any ideas in his head about putting any of his efforts towards making sure Malfoy was all right. She was still angry over the funeral, and it had been months since that had happened.

How she managed to keep that anger burning, he had no idea; however, she had been spurred to start trying out for professional Quidditch teams. He thought that it might be out of spite, that she wanted him to feel badly for driving her to stay out of the house so much. In reality, he was a little relieved. He could never tell Ron, but being with Ginny was a lot harder than he had anticipated. They were both bull-headed, and he knew that he let her win too much. Still, he felt like he was winning this fight, because he got to spend two nights a week by himself at home and truly relax, and Ginny got to pursue a career she was actually interested in.

“I think I will. Besides, I want to see the look on Malfoy’s face when he realises I’m part of his guard. I’ll take a picture. Then I’ll get to keep it forever.”

Harry rolled his eyes and put M.’s letter aside, going back to his study of highly advanced poisons, and chewing on the end of his quill. Ron, on the other hand, headed out of their office to speak to Kingsley.

 

*

Pansy Parkinson didn’t know where she was or why she was there. It was dark, and she remembered having been walking down the street in the Welsh village she was visiting with Blaise. Neither of them had been marked as Death Eaters, and so they weren’t put under the same restrictions as Draco had been. Blaise had ducked into a tavern to buy a pack of cigarettes for them to share, and then everything was darkness.

When she woke up again, the first thing that struck her other than the darkness was the stench of the place. It was vile, overwhelming, smelling of shit and piss and hay, and she wanted to vomit. She quelled the urge to do so and tried to squint through the darkness; there was a faint sliver of light up and to her left that suggested the crack beneath a door at the top of a small staircase. It was the only light in the room.

She did not seem to be in any immediate danger, and so she relaxed, feeling her back pressing against the bars of a cage. The floor was covered in straw and didn’t feel clean, and her clothes were wet with something foul. Still, nothing could get her there in the cage.

Then something—she didn’t have any idea what it was—roared much too close to her ear, and she began to scream in terror.

“ _Let me out! LET ME OUT!_ ”

 

*

Malfoy Manor was a lonely place when you were the only living human contained within it. Sure, there were portraits of all the old masters of the house (including his parents, newly painted and sleeping at the end of the hallway of portraits), but Draco didn’t like to visit with his ancestors. They were terribly judgmental.

_“Worthless!”_

_“Blood traitor!”_

_“When are you going to produce an heir?”_

Draco couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he made his way from his bedroom to the dining room that morning. It was the same every day; he was accosted by the dead as he made his way down the hall, and only two portraits looked at him with any kindness. His mother and father, when they were actually awake, showed nothing but pride in their son as he took over the family affairs and proved that all of his tutoring in running an estate hadn’t been useless. He wouldn’t admit to anyone that it was more difficult that he had anticipated.

He’d had to arrange his parents’ funerals, during which time he realised that they didn’t have nearly as much money as he had anticipated. He wasn’t in danger of going poor any time soon, but he knew that he would have to work. He blamed the Ministry for the sad state of his ledger—there had been so many raids on the Malfoy estate and vaults that it was a wonder they had left anything at all. Restitutions, they called it. Draco thought it was nothing but spite.

Then again, he couldn’t really blame anyone for harbouring ill will towards his family name. He wasn’t particularly fond of it himself, not any more. They’d hurt people. He had _hurt_ people. It was something that shook the child within him to the core. The concept was easy to grasp, always had been, but the reality of lifting his wand in anger was something that had proven to be too difficult for him when he’d done so to Dumbledore, and it sickened him now.

How things might have been different, had he only had a little sense.

Now, Draco had nothing but sense; he couldn’t afford anything else. He had to manage the family affairs and the estate along with those who resided within it. The house elves took more kindly to him than they had his father, and he suspected that it was because he didn’t treat them like complete garbage. As a child, they had borne the brunt of raising him, and he had some affection for the lot; as an adult, he was grateful for their assistance. In the case of the elf who had been his primary caretaker as a child, an old girl named Ditty, he could understand why Potter had buried Dobby on the shores at Shell Cottage. He would bury her, when the time came, with nothing but a shovel and a sweaty brow.

When he came to the dining room, he sat down at the table and heard the familiar crack of Ditty appearing next to his chair. “My lord,” she said with a smile, “your paper arrived just moments ago, and breakfast should be out at any time. Do you have any special requests?”

Draco regarded her with a kind smile, and he shook his head. “No, Ditty. Thank you, though.” He hesitated for a moment, considering her. “Well, perhaps. Would you care to join me for breakfast?” He was lonelier than he’d thought, clearly; the shock of his request was written all over Ditty’s face, and he couldn’t believe he’d asked the question in the first place.

“Of course, my lord.”

Ditty did not sit at the table; instead, she settled down near Draco’s feet and waited for the other house elves, watching him with dewy eyes as he opened up the morning’s Daily Prophet. She did not speak further, as it wasn’t her place, but Draco was well-contented to sit in companionable silence as he flipped through the paper. Page three caught his eye immediately, and he lowered the paper to the table.

_My dearest Mr Shacklebolt,_

_Soon, I will be growing my collection. I always wondered what it would be like to keep a wizard in my zoo._

_You know how I love to keep things interesting. Maybe you’ll keep up this time._

_Yours,_

_M._

The words weren’t what shocked Draco, but the photograph over which they were superimposed. It was of himself, just a few days before when he’d been sitting in the gardens taking his afternoon tea and going through leaflets of jobs at the Ministry. He hadn’t even been sure if he could find employment there, but he thought that he might like to try for a position as an Unspeakable. If those who had fought at the battle of Hogwarts and survived were given free entrance into the Auror Training Program, then he might be able to use the argument for training as an Unspeakable.

He wasn’t about to be an Auror, after all. He’d have to work with that sod, Potter.

The photograph was unsettling, and he was put off his food such that when the house elves brought it out, he held up his hand and told them to enjoy it themselves. He didn’t have to think hard about what the warning meant—M. was a legend, especially amongst the Death Eaters—and he felt sick to his stomach as he processed the fact that he was his next target.

The Death Eaters had tried to recruit M. for their ranks, not necessarily because he was himself especially powerful, but because they knew more than the Ministry did about his little zoo. It was more than a meagre collection of restricted creatures; rather, it was an arsenal of dragons, chimaera, griffins, Graphorns, and countless other dangerous creatures that would have been more than desirable to the Dark Lord’s army. M. was also known for human trafficking, though more of the Muggle variety, and that would have also been highly useful in their efforts for stronger numbers given the Death Eater’s proclivities towards use of the Imperius curse.

M. had been impossible to find, unfortunately. Voldemort had been in a mood for weeks over their failed efforts.

Draco had hoped that they would find him; unlike everyone else, however, he had been interested in M. joining the Death Eaters because he had been obsessed with the cat-and-mouse game he played with the Ministry as a child. The child within him begged to be caught so he could finally get to know this person, this childhood antihero; the rational adult knew that he was in serious trouble. As far as anyone knew, M. had never failed to acquire his targets.

There was a thrill in Draco that he did not expect. Whenever there was excitement in school, it was always centred on a life-or-death situation for him or another chance at glory for Potter. He didn’t think that this would be life-or-death for him, as M. didn’t kill his conquests and kept them instead. Draco thought that he must live in a huge manor, with enormous grounds and a zoo of creatures that were loyal only to him.

Draco was considered worthy of a world-class collection.

And the portraits in the hall said he’d never amount to anything.

His wards pinged just before noon, when he was in the gardens staring at the hills surrounding the Manor for any sign of a camera, for any hint that someone was staring at him in just that moment. He heaved a sigh and started towards the gate; no one good ever came around anymore. Most of his Slytherin friends were dead or in prison, so he was typically visited by someone from the Ministry who was checking that he kept to his probation terms. He was not, therefore, surprised to see a brown trench coat at the gate. _Great, Aurors._

When he saw that the Auror was not alone, but also joined by Ron Weasley, he rolled his eyes to the sky and winced when he heard the click of a camera. “What the fuck, Weasley?” he asked, looking sharply to him as he lowered the camera he was holding in his hands. He looked briefly to the senior Auror, the one he recognised as Williamson by his obnoxiously red robes and a ponytail that couldn’t have been in line with Ministry dress code. Williamson just shrugged at him.

“Oh, I want to savour this, Malfoy. Let us in, will you?” He gestured to the gate, though he clearly meant the wards in general. Draco lifted his mother’s wand in hand and altered the wards such that they could pass through; it was more difficult than it would have been if he’d had his own wand, but Potter was still in possession of it. He watched with slightly narrowed eyes as Williamson and Weasley stepped through the gate and started towards the Manor.

Draco followed them, falling into the role of the faux-gracious host and letting them into the house, directing them to the dining room and offering drinks before he settled down at the head of the table and leaned back in his father’s— _his_ —chair. “I’m keeping to my probation, I’ll have you know. I haven’t been out of the grounds since the funeral. Surely your own wards around this place would have told you if I had. Is this really an appropriate use of Ministry funds, checking on me every few days?” He nodded his gratitude to Ditty when she brought out tea for everyone, and he took his cup in hand.

Williamson lifted his hand. “That’s not it at all, Lord Malfoy,” he said matter-of-factly. “Did you see the paper this morning? We had sent along an owl to indicate that we’d be coming…” He looked around the dining room and saw an unopened letter dropped at the corner of the table, and he sighed. “The owl ought to have waited. This is important.”

Draco looked to the letter and then back to Williamson. “I’m a bit preoccupied, if you hadn’t noticed. I have all of these social gatherings. Have to keep up appearances.” He rolled his eyes; he hadn’t been anywhere since the end of his trials, save for the funeral and the pub after, and it was driving him mad. “I did see the paper, incidentally. Did you see about the Holyhead Harpies recruiting? Maybe you’ve missed your calling, Weasley.”

Ron just grinned at him, holding up his camera. Williamson glanced at his Auror-in-training for a moment before he gave Draco a patient smile. “Yes, well, I meant page three. Did you see the ad?”

“Oh, that. I suppose. Did you come here to _check on me_ , Weasley? Were you worried? I’m so touched.” Draco briefly clutched his hands to his chest before he took a drink of his tea and looked generally unimpressed with the men in front of himself. “I don’t know why M.’s making such a fuss about it. It’s not as though I’m hard to get to, is it? There’s no sport in coming after me; I don’t even have a proper wand.”

Williamson sighed. “Yes, well, he has taken a shine to you. Weasley and I are your security detail; he asked to be put on the assignment personally.”

Ron’s camera flashed again as Draco looked aghast. “My _what_? They sent two of the most incompetent Aurors to look after me? I’m touched, really, but I think I can do better on my own. Thanks.” He knew how Williamson had fled the Ministry early before Voldemort and Dumbledore had battled in the Ministry foyer, and he wasn’t exactly confident in Weasley’s ability to warm a kettle, much less be of any use in security.

Ron turned red to the tips of his ears, and Williamson stared blankly at Draco. “Be that as it may, here we are. At your service, Lord Malfoy. We’ll take the guest rooms.”

 

*

It had taken a lot of research to back up Newt Scamander’s declaration that Draco Lucius Malfoy was the last of the true Pureblooded wizards in Europe. M. had no hopes that he was the last one left in the world, but certainly Europe was doable. The updated version of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them had been released soon after the funerals of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and M. was sure that it was a joke at first.

It wasn’t a joke. It was true.

Confirmation had taken a number of weeks, buried in books within M.’s personal library and within a number of versions of the extremely dry Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Not a single edition was a fun read, even for an avid collector pursuing a dear hobby, but it had to be done.

The Malfoy family line was much splintered through the centuries, but it was a most impressive tree. The Malfoys were a true noble family, with links to the breeding of special abilities in the earlier editions and hundreds of ties to wild success. Even the Blacks, which had to be checked as well, were as impressive; as such, Draco Lucius Malfoy was quite the specimen himself. He was bred for success and nobility, and M. meant to give it to him.

Everything came with a price; M. wasn’t going to give it to him for nothing.

The pedigrees of the Black and Malfoys had their black marks, of course, but be it fate or sensibility, the direct lines leading to Draco Malfoy were untouched by Muggle blood. Sisters and brothers of progenitors had certainly dabbled in those of dirty blood, but not those who had produced the heirs who led to the last pureblood in Europe.

What a prize! M. wondered what sort of abilities could be bred from the Malfoy heir, given the Blacks’ tendencies towards metamorphmagism and the Malfoy’s inherent abilities to amass riches and followers unlike any other family. The idea of finding a Pureblooded wizard from Egypt, where families bred for animagism, or from eastern Asia, where families still bred for the natural control of dragons, and breeding for a perfect heir was too good to pass up.

Really, it would be doing the Malfoy boy a favour. The Ministry had him locked away in his opulent prison, and he wasn’t about to produce an heir when he had nothing but house elves to keep him company.

There was an enormous roar from somewhere below; soon after, a terrible, shrieking wail of terror sang through the house. “ _Let me out! LET ME OUT!_ ”

M. ignored both of these sounds and admired the ad on page three of the Daily Prophet, running appreciative fingertips over the moving image of Draco Malfoy in his garden. “Soon enough, Lord Malfoy.”

 

*

Harry slid into the booth across from Ron and Hermione and leaned back, sighing as he rested his head against the cushion. His neck ached; he’d spent the whole of the day bent over old clues from M. and making notes, knowing that every bit of it was completely futile. If everyone else in the Auror Office had gone over them a thousand times, he wasn’t going to make any new breakthroughs.

Ginny sat down next to him and he slipped his arm around her waist, smiling at her then looking across to Ron. “So, how’s the security detail going?”

Ginny groaned. “Do we have to talk about work tonight? We’re supposed to be relaxing.”

Harry shrugged at her and ordered a pint from the server before he looked back to Ron, who was digging through his bag. It had been a few weeks since he had been put on security detail at the Malfoy Manor, and he rarely came to the office anymore. He spent most of his time, as far as Harry could tell, either at home or standing guard over Malfoy.

“Oh, just fantastic. I finally got that film developed, check it out.” He set the photographs down on the table between them and slid them across to Harry. There were several of them, all featuring Draco looking particularly pissed off, annoyed, or generally put-upon. Harry couldn’t help a laugh. “He’s acting like it’s the very worst thing that’s ever happened to him. I reckon it must be. Can you imagine? But nah.” He took a drink of his half-empty lager and leaned warmly against Hermione’s shoulder, smiling. “It’s boring, really. I just stand around watching him do maths and bitching at his family portraits. They really don’t let up. Imagine a hundred Walburgas.”

Harry and Ginny both shuddered. “I don’t want to,” Harry laughed. “So he’s not being a git about it, then?”

Ron shrugged his shoulders. “Not as much as I expected, honestly. He’s awfully busy for someone who doesn’t leave the house. He spends all his time staring at expenses and looking right miserable about the whole thing. I told him to hire an estate planner and he chucked a teacup at me.” He shook his head. “The Manor’s nice, at least, when there’s not a basement full of prisoners. I can think of worse places to work. The company’s shite, though; Williamson’s about as useless as you’d expect.”

Williamson didn’t have the best reputation; Kingsley chose him to be in charge of the detail because he was disposable, though he didn’t say it so bluntly. Williamson wasn’t known for his bravery, though he was excellent at concealment, and no one really expected him to stand much of a chance against M. should he come knocking. Still, the Ministry had greater priorities than a Death Eater on probation; Malfoy wasn’t exactly at the top of the list, and he was about as safe as he could be with the wards around the Manor being what they were. Besides, M. hadn’t sent any more letters to the Ministry or to the Prophet, and everything seemed low-key for the time being.

“Pity, that.” Harry took his drink when it arrived and clinked his glass against Ginny’s, smiling at her in the low light of the pub. Sometimes he felt very lucky to have her on his arm. They hadn’t fought in weeks, and she’d been particularly affectionate once she’d let him back into bed after the Malfoy funerals. He hadn’t been happier with her in a long time, even if she did fuss over his current obsession with M.’s case. She even took some interest in it, as it had been in the Prophet ever since she could remember. “Do you two have plans for Valentine’s Day? Ginny and I were planning on going on a weekend holiday to France.”

Hermione grinned at Ginny, then shook her head and smiled affectionately at her husband. “No, Ronald’s on schedule for Malfoy’s place that night. I’m going to stay at home with a box of chocolates and a good, sappy movie on the telly. Or a good book.”

Ron wrapped his arm around her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek appreciatively. “I’ve got the best woman in the whole world. She’s not even angry that I’m spending Valentine’s with Malfoy. That’s romance.”

Ginny wrinkled her nose. “Suit yourself. I wish you could come to Paris with us.” She looked shyly up to Harry, who shook his head firmly.

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got plans, and I hardly see you since you’ve started your training camp.” Ginny had been accepted into the camp for the Holyhead Harpies; while it didn’t guarantee a spot on the team, it was the first big step, and she was thrilled with it.

Ginny’s eyes lit up, and she hazarded a quick glance at Hermione, who gave her a hopeful thumbs up. If Harry had big plans for Valentine’s Day in Paris…well. Ginny’s heart soared, and she leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I can’t wait.”

“Another round, please!” Ron called out. “I’m not going to watch my sister and my best mate snogging unless I’m at least three pints in.”

Harry was glad to have a little time with his best mates, even if Ginny had insisted on tagging along. It was hard to play third wheel to Ron and Hermione; they had been obnoxious ever since they finally got together, and it had not improved since they got married. He had served as Ron’s best man, though from what he understood, there had been a fight over which side he got to stand on at the altar.

Their marriage was everything he imagined that his marriage with Ginny would be one day. They were affectionate and absolutely in love with one another, having known each other so long. They didn’t keep secrets, and when they fought, it was brief and half-hearted. He only wished that his fights with Ginny were so easy, but Ron told him that it got easier as time went on and soon enough, they’d stop fighting altogether. It certainly seemed that way for Ron and Hermione, who weren’t quite to that point yet but were well on their way. Harry was eager for Hermione to get pregnant, to be a godfather to their children even if he was already playing godfather to Teddy. That wasn’t the same.

It was impossible to talk to Ron, however, about the problems he had with Ginny. Ron never wanted to hear about the problems he couldn’t talk to Hermione about out of embarrassment, and the ones he could talk about still seemed to be off-limits. He supposed that he couldn’t blame Ron for it, since he’d have to choose between his best mate and his baby sister, but the temptation to blame him a little was definitely there. It was probably best to leave his home life out of his relationship with Ron at the moment, especially as they were planning on becoming partners once they achieved licensure as Aurors.

It was easy to laugh now that the war had been over for a little while. It had not been so easy at first, when they were inundated by funerals and memorial services, when every turn reminded them of what they had lost as a community and as individuals. Hogwarts was a wreck, and Ginny’s last year was spent helping the staff and older students rebuild and clean after classes; it was still undergoing reconstruction, but none of the halls were still closed off. McGonagall had taken over as Headmistress in Snape’s stead and was doing an admirable job in the eyes of the public and even the waspish Board of Governors, to which Harry had been invited to join once he was licensed.

Every day was a little easier, but the war never left any of them. Harry suspected it was easier on Ginny, though he knew that she had her own nightmares. While Voldemort was dead, his words still rang in Harry’s ears when he slept—his friends had died for him, in defence of his cause—and they haunted him in their own way. It was something he didn’t like to talk about with anyone, not even Ron and Hermione.

Still, his heart felt a little lighter when they parted ways for the evening, and he offered his arm to Ginny as they took to the street together. At times like these, he was glad for Ginny most of all. The winter chill turned her cheeks pink and made her keep balm on her lips, and he couldn’t help stopping to kiss her under the warm glow of a streetlamp. “I love you,” he said quietly against her mouth, realising that he didn’t say it enough. He thought that he ought to work on changing that.

Ginny’s brown eyes shone in the light and she melted against Harry’s chest, putting a gloved hand in his messy hair and grinning at him. “I love you, too, you great git. You’re going to freeze us both to death if you keep us out here in this cold. I’d like to have you well enough in Paris to celebrate Valentine’s Day properly.”

Harry brushed their cold noses together before he kissed her between the eyes. “As long as ‘properly’ doesn’t involve any singing valentines, I think I can agree,” he murmured against her skin, and he laughed as she smacked him on the arm and mock-glared up at him.

“Oh, you’re in for it now, Potter,” she teased. “You’re going to have a hundred of them, and they’ll all be in _French_.”

Harry had the next day off, so he spent the rest of the evening showing his appreciation for Ginny; as a result, he didn’t wake up nearly as early as he usually did the next morning. It was nearly noon before he reached an arm across the bed and found it empty. “Gin, where are you?” he called, straining his ears and hearing nothing. He rolled over onto his back in bed and looked to the nightstand, seeing that she’d set out a Hangover Potion for him and feeling a surge of affection for her. He swallowed it in one and lay back, letting the effects wash over him and eliminate the headache that was already starting to form.

He needed to learn his limits when it came to beer. He seemed to need Hangover Potions more often these days, and he never realised he needed them until the next morning. When he was certain that he was going to be all right, he stepped out of bed and made his way naked through the flat they shared, going to the living room and spotting a note on the coffee table.

_Harry,_

_Gone to practice. See you this afternoon!_

_Love,_

_Ginny_

He smoothed his thumb over her name with a smile and flopped down on the couch, taking the remote in hand and starting to flip through the channels. He didn’t get very far, though, before there was a knock at the door. He cursed. “Hold on a minute!”

Quickly, he got off the couch and grabbed a bathrobe, wrapping it around himself and tying it shut before he went to the door and blinked down at a beaming Hermione. “Oh, hi. Come on in.” She ducked under his arm and he closed the door behind her. “Do you want some tea?”

“No, Harry. Come on, show me the ring!” She went to the couch and sat down, looking eagerly at her best friend and practically bouncing. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us. You really should have brought me along; you don’t have the uh…” She looked him over, noting that he was wearing Ginny’s bathrobe. “…best fashion sense.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, and he smoothed the robe defensively over his thighs. “What are you talking about? What ring?” he asked, sitting down next to her on the couch. “Why would you think I have a ring?”

Hermione stared at him for a few moments. “Harry, you twat, you said that you had big plans for Paris. You know that Ginny wants to get married. It’s not a big secret.” She bit her lip and leaned back against the couch, crossing her arms. “Harry…”

Harry frowned severely at her. “I do have big plans for Paris. I want to take her to the Louvre and let her pick out one of those fluffy French dogs she’s always crooning over. Who said anything about asking her to marry me?”

“What did you expect?” Hermione demanded, and she smacked him on the knee. “You can’t say things like ‘I have big plans for Paris on Valentine’s Day’ without a girl getting ideas, especially Ginny. She’s really been trying lately, Harry, and I know she’s been expecting a ring any day now. You…you know you don’t have to get married right away when you engaged.”

Harry looked horrified. “Hermione, I’m not going to propose to her to keep her happy. I think I’d rather we were happy already, yeah? Things have been kind of rough the past six months, and I’m not even sure she wants to stay in it for what it is.” He hesitated for a moment, then pressed on. “I worry about it, all right? She seems miserable with me most of the time. I feel like I’m letting her down, but I don’t think that giving her a diamond’s going to magically make everything better. Not everything’s as easy as it was with you and Ron. You had all that time before to get to know each other, and you were in love with each other as long as I can remember. It’s…different with me and her.”

Hermione looked for a moment as though she was going to be offended, then she just sagged against the back of the couch. “You…You got to know each other before.”

“It wasn’t the same, and you know it.” Harry rubbed his hands together. “And we spent all that time apart, thinking about each other. I think I thought too much. I got all these ideas about her, and now that she’s here, I just don’t think she could have lived up to what I was thinking.” He leaned his head against the back of the couch and stared up at the ceiling. “I know she’s thinking the same thing. I’m not stupid.”

Hermione took one of Harry’s hands and smiled at him. “All relationships are hard in the beginning, Harry,” she said quietly. “You just have to give it time. Just…have a good time in Paris, yeah? Think about it, and maybe you two should actually sit down and talk to each other about it for once. I think that you don’t talk to each other as much as you should, and it’s killing the both of you. You’ve only lived together for a year and a half. You don’t want to do something you’ll regret.”

Harry nodded his head and squeezed Hermione’s hand. “You’re right, of course,” he said quietly. “I just worry about it. She’s got a hell of a temper. I don’t want to get her really pissed off at me.” He bounced slightly on the couch. “This thing isn’t nearly as comfortable to sleep on as you might imagine.”

Hermione snorted indelicately. “I should think not. Just give it your best, Harry, and maybe leave the cases at work instead of at home? I know that she doesn’t think you spend enough alone time with her.”

Harry nodded in agreement. “All right. I’ll try.”

 

*

It had been too long since M. had sent a note on his progress, and so it was no surprise when one arrived the next Wednesday on Kingsley’s desk. It was quickly whisked to Harry and Ron’s office, where Harry was alone. He took the note in hand and heaved a sigh.

_My dearest Kingsley,_

_Are you as comfortable as he is?_

_Love,_

_M._

The question prompted Harry to immediately seek out a copy of the Daily Prophet, where page seven had been bought for another full-page ad. There was another enlarged photograph of Malfoy, though he wasn’t sitting in his gardens or even outside; he was curled up in bed, asleep, with Ron visibly snoring in the chair next to it. “Shit,” Harry sighed the moment before Kingsley came storming into the office.

“Where’s Weasley?”

Harry winced, and he shook his head. “At Malfoy Manor, I’d guess.” He reached into his pocket and found the enchanted Galleon they’d used for Dumbledore’s Army, checking it and seeing that it hadn’t changed since the night before. Ron was probably all right. “Have you heard anything?”

“No, I haven’t bloody well heard anything!” Kingsley burst out, then he sagged into the chair next to Harry’s desk. “This is an enormous embarrassment, Potter. Do you know what it looks like to have the security detail sleeping on the damned job? I don’t doubt that this is the most boring post we could have put anybody on, but this is a prime example of how one slip up can lead to an absolute disaster. How close do you suppose he got to them? It looks like he was in the same room, and they didn’t even fucking move. The press is going to have a field day about how incompetent we are, you know it.”

Harry looked down at the photograph and sighed. “Yeah, I know,” he said quietly. “Maybe there should be a third Auror on it. Ron’s really not liking these twelve-hour shifts. It would be a lot better if there was another rotation, I think.” He looked up at Kingsley. “Just not me, please. I’d hex Malfoy to hell and back, and I don’t think that would impress the Prophet, either.”

Kingsley couldn’t help a laugh, and he nodded his head. “You’ve got a point, Potter. I’ll see who’s up to it, but if no one else is…” He shrugged. “It might be you in the end. I’m not sending Longbottom; he’s murderous when it comes to Malfoy. At least you and Weasley have some restraint in that regard.”

“Just not this weekend, if it comes down to it. I’m taking Ginny to Paris.”

Kingsley’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you? Well, I’m sure she’ll enjoy it. She deserves a weekend with you, with how patient she is. You never stop working. I’m shocked she hasn’t burned a case file yet.”

Harry smiled at him. “You’re not the only one. Let me know Monday, one way or the other.”

 

*

It was said that Paris was beautiful in springtime, but no one ever said anything about February. It was cold and raining, and both Harry and Ginny had to keep their scarves drawn tightly around their necks as they walked the perimeter of their island in the Seine, admiring the architecture of the city even if they couldn’t enjoy the romantic ambiance in this weather. They were staying in the 4th arrondissement on Ile Saint-Louis, where it was quiet and picturesque, and Harry had paid an obnoxious amount of Galleons to secure their place for Valentine’s Day.

“Can we eat at the Tour d’Argent tonight?” Ginny asked breathlessly as she pulled her coat a little more tightly about herself. “I’ve heard such lovely things…”

Harry smiled down at her and leaned in to kiss her temple, lips cold against her skin. “I wouldn’t dream of saying no. In fact, I may have spied a bit on your letters and already made us reservations before we even made it out here.”

Times like these made Ginny absolutely sure that she was going to spend forever at Harry’s side. He seemed to know what would make her happiest when he took the time to think about it, and even though Hermione had warned her before they came not to expect a proposal, Ginny wasn’t so sure. Harry wasn’t this romantic normally, not by half, and there had to be a reason for that. She knew that work wasn’t getting any better for him—if anything, it was getting worse, since he might be put on the Malfoy assignment—so he must have had plans for her this weekend besides wandering the city sightseeing and making love to her between the impossibly soft sheets of their comfortable bed on the island.

Not that she hadn’t been enjoying those things, of course. Was there any better place to spend a weekend in bed than in Paris? Was there anyone better to spend that weekend with than Harry Potter, who had spent the summer after the war learning everything there was to know about fucking Ginny Weasley. They’d been fumbling virgins then, giggling and embarrassed and too shy to leave the lights on most of the time; now, Harry was sure of himself and, she was reluctant to admit, not half as fun as he used to be. She knew that she shouldn’t complain, that Harry’s mind was occupied with work and his upcoming testing to acquire his Auror license, but was it too much to ask to try something new every once in a while?

Harry never wanted to talk about it, so apparently it was too much to ask.

Still, they were in Paris and Harry was showing some real interest, and Ginny was happy. She was also perfectly convinced that Harry was going to propose to her over dinner, especially since he’d made reservations.

They spent the afternoon exploring Paris hand-in-hand, only stopping when their noses were red and Ginny couldn’t stop shivering. They went back to their rented rooms and stripped out of their damp clothes before stepping into the shower together. Harry washed Ginny’s hair and kissed her wet, freckled shoulders, and she never wanted to leave Paris.

Harry, on the other hand, was miserable.

He had planned this trip entirely for Ginny’s benefit; he had had quite enough of travelling the last year of the war, and the perfect vacation for him was staying at home. Still, he knew that a well-placed romantic gesture was sometimes the best way to save something, and no one could say that he wasn’t trying. He’d got a premium room in the centre of the city, on Ile Saint-Louis no less, and he’d made reservations at a reputable restaurant nearby and he’d hardly let her sleep the night before.

He didn’t like Paris much. He wished that he’d waited until April, but he felt as though he hadn’t really had any other choice. He and Ginny had fought over Christmas, and he needed to make up for it with something she’d remember for Valentine’s Day. Besides, it got him away from his work, and he could forget all about M. and Malfoy for a few days. It was supposed to do him some good. Instead, he just wanted to go back to work.

He wanted to go back to work more than anything until work came to him, soaking wet and spitting mad.

 

*

It really was a terrible time for Potter to have gone on vacation, Kingsley mused as he stared down at the package an owl had dropped on his desk that morning. It had been unmarked, but there were no curses or any dangerous spells placed on it, so it had made it into the Ministry and onto his desk. He’d opened it and he was horrified at what had been sent to him.

It was dozens of photographs.

Draco Malfoy, sitting at the breakfast table, looking down at a house-elf with a smile that no one would have expected Malfoy to have with regards to his servant. Draco with his mother’s wand raised to Ron, who was laughing riotously and pointing at him. Williamson flipping through a Muggle magazine that Malfoy was eyeing with distaste. Malfoy sneaking a look at the magazine himself. Malfoy beginning to undress as he made his way to his bathroom, closing the door just before it got to be too much for Kingsley’s eyes.

All of the photographs were taken from inside Malfoy Manor, in the full presence of Aurors. Every one of them had the same thing written on the back.

_Soon._

_Soon._

_Soon._

“Fuck,” Kingsley sighed in frustration, giving in to his baser desire to curse. This just wasn’t working. How was M. getting by the wards at Malfoy Manor? They had retooled them every time a threat had been made, and Kingsley didn’t know how they could be more extensive. What was he missing?

The sound of someone storming down the hall caught his ear, and he looked up just in time to see Williamson burst into his office in a fit of pique. “You got them, then? What did he send you?” he asked as he came over to Kingsley’s desk and looked down at the photographs spread there. “That’s all? You got off easy; the Manor is filled with huge prints. It’s fucking unsettling is what it is. I haven’t seen _anything_ , not even felt a damned bit of magic, and he was in the fucking room with us!”

“What are you doing here?” Kingsley demanded. “You should have fire-called, not come all the way to London when M.’s papering the place, don’t you think?”

Williamson hesitated for a moment, just as a second set of footfalls came sounding down the hall, and Weasley threw himself into Kingsley’s office behind his supervisor. “Sir!” he said, out of breath. “I can’t find him! I can’t find Malfoy! The wards didn’t even ping to say that he’s left!”

As if on cue, the alarm on Kingsley’s desk began to wail, and all three Aurors stared at it.

 

*

Draco Malfoy had never felt more violated than he did when he woke up that Saturday morning and was faced with hundreds of photographs, blown up and moving, all featuring himself and his security detail. They covered the walls and even some of his family portraits in the hallway, much to the chagrin of his forefathers, and they seemed all very incredibly personal.

M. was fucking with him and having a good time doing it. There was no question of that.

It didn’t make any sense; how had M. got into the Manor undetected? How was this even happening? The child in Draco that had wanted to be caught was quiet now in the face of how unnerving this game was. This wasn’t just a chase for the Ministry now, but a real possibility of harm for Draco, and he was nothing if he wasn’t a coward when it came to his security. This was personal, viciously close to home, and Draco was scared.

He felt unprotected. What use was having the Aurors invading his personal space if they weren’t doing anything to stop this? He would have felt much more secure if he had his own wand, one that truly understood him and the way he performed magic, but Potter still had it captive and he was forced to settle with his mother’s. Her death hadn’t had any impact on its use.

Williamson had left when he’d followed Draco out of his bedroom to see the photographs, and Weasley had been in a right state of panic. “Oh, well done, Shacklebolt,” Draco muttered to him. “Protect me with the biggest pansy the Auror Office has ever seen and a rookie. I’m so glad that my finances have supported the Ministry. Look what it gets me.”

“Hey, we’re doing our fucking best, Malfoy. You’re not helping.”

Draco’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head, and he made a rude gesture at Ron. “What is it I’m supposed to do? Fucking fine. I’m going to take care of this myself. You’re fired.”

“What?!”

Draco vanished with the tell-tale crack of apparition. He didn’t go far, only out into the labyrinthine gardens surrounding the Manor. Weasley had no idea how to get into this part of them, and Draco felt secure for the moment as he flopped down into the snow at the base of a tree and drew up his knees.

He wasn’t safe here, not with Williamson and Weasley. If there was any pair that he trusted with his security, loathe as he was to admit it, it would have been Shacklebolt and Potter. Shacklebolt didn’t get to be the head of the Auror Office for nothing, and Potter had such a ridiculous hero complex that he must have been itching to be on the assignment.

That was an idea. He’d go to Potter. He was reluctant to admit that he needed help, but this stalking was getting beyond reason, and he knew that if he stayed in the Manor much longer, he’d be caught. That was quickly being made obvious to be a terrible plan. He needed to go somewhere else, into Ministry protection, and was there any safer place than Harry Potter’s flat? It wasn’t ideal, of course—he positively despised the sod—but any port in a storm was better than the open sea.

Weasley had said something about Potter being in Paris with his girl-weasel, something about Ile Saint-Louis and how Potter had better propose or she was going to break his nose. Draco hardly listened, but he had been somewhat interested (much to his embarrassment) in whether Potter was going to make an honest woman out her finally. Really, what _was_ he waiting for? He supposed that Ginny made the fatal mistake of giving Harry milk before he’d purchased the cow, and the milk hadn’t been to his taste.

Really, who wanted to marry a Weasley? Perish the thought.

It was decided. He would go to Potter and demand asylum, and Potter’s hero complex would ensure that he said yes. It was the perfect plan, even if the details were unsavoury. Damning the terms of his probation and reasoning that his life was more important than possible repercussions, DracoApparated once more, this time off the grounds of Malfoy Manor and into a cold winter’s downpour in Paris, France. He hadn’t been dressed for the occasion, not by half, and he wrapped his arms around himself before he began to walk to Ile Saint-Louis.

Draco had been to Paris a hundred times at least; Narcissa was always interested in the French fashions of the given season, and she dragged her protesting son with her every time she got the urge to go. Still, they kept to the wizarding quarters of Paris, and Draco had no illusions as to Potter staying there if he was taking Ginny. The whole stinking lot of Weasleys was so obsessed with Muggles that Draco thought they ought to just throw in the towel and break their wands. It would be doing everyone a favour.

The rain wasn’t letting up, and he was miserable and cold. Curse Potter for coming to Paris in the winter; who the hell did that? He lifted his face to the sky and squinted at the thick clouds as though they were somehow responsible for his predicament, wondering how long it would take a team of Aurors to swoop down on him and drag him off to Azkaban for taking his life into his own hands. He hadn’t been outside of the Manor since the end of the war save for two times: the trials, and the funerals. He should have been jumping and screaming and running; instead, he was just cold and wanted to get indoors next to a fire.

He was scared. Terrified. He was hunted.

The ridiculousness of his situation crashed down around him his third hour of searching, long after he’d cast a nigh-useless Warming Charm on his clothes and spelled them dry at least four times. He flopped onto a wet, cast-iron bench and laughed himself silly, his hair sticking to his face and his nose dripping with rain. At least he wasn’t at home, where M. was likely sacking the Manor looking for him, or the Aurors were screaming for him in every corner of the place.

When his laughing fit had subsided, he found that anger ebbed into its place. Hadn’t he been through enough? He threw himself off the bench and stalked around the island once more, fists clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed dangerously. He was going to hex Potter so he couldn’t move for a week when he found him, a fitting punishment for making him look for hours on end.

It was then that he heard a familiar laugh—not Potter’s, but Weasley’s—and he jerked his head around to see them walking under an enormous umbrella, arm in arm. Potter was carrying a paper bag that was no doubt filled with leftovers, and Weasley was looking up at him like he hung the damned moon.

He hated them.

“Potter!” he snarled as he stormed right up to the pair of them, looking for all the world as though he would punch him in the face. “Where the _bloody fuck_ have you been? I have been looking for you for _hours_ and you…you…” He was so angry that he couldn’t form coherent sentences just then.

Ginny looked aghast at the sight of Malfoy, and she drew her wand without a second thought. “What are you doi—”

Harry didn’t give Ginny much of a chance to speak; he stepped out in front of her, cutting her off and grabbing Malfoy about the shoulders in worry. “Where’s Ron? Williamson? Fuck, Malfoy, what’s happened? Are you all right? How did you find us? Do they need me at the Ministry?” His voice was rising in a panicked pitch as he spoke, convincing himself of the worst as all the reasons Malfoy could have had for being in Paris ran through his mind. He shouldn’t have come, this was all a terrible idea and he wasn’t even having that great of a time, he needed to get _back to work_.

“Pull yourself together, Potter! Get your wand off me, Weasley! Everybody’s fucking fine, and you’re taking me inside now before I catch pneumonia. I’ve had it up to fucking here with Paris.” He gestured violently at the city and then at Harry, who stared blankly at him for a moment.

“No one’s hurt?”

“No.”

“No one’s been captured?”

“Fuck, Potter, NO. Are you deaf, or are you trying to kill me?! Weasley, Merlin help you if you don’t put that wand down.”

Ginny did so reluctantly, though she clutched it in the pocket of her robes and followed along as Harry sighed and took Malfoy by the shoulder, leading him towards the rooms they’d rented. He shot an apologetic look back at her, but Ginny wasn’t meeting his eyes.

When they came to their rooms, Harry set the umbrella by the door and shed his cloak, stepping briefly into the kitchen to put the food in the refrigerator before he came back out to see that Ginny had shut herself up in the bedroom. He heaved a world-weary sigh and then looked at Malfoy, who was dripping on the hardwood floor and looking like a drowned rat. “Do you want a change of clothes?” he asked quietly, his eyes turning to the window to see that there were three owls pecking at the pane.

He had instructed Kingsley to not contact him unless it was an emergency, though he supposed this counted. This was a panic situation.

“Oh no, Potter. I’m perfectly happy staying in these, freezing my bollocks off and catching my death. Please, don’t go out of your way!” Draco snapped as Potter went to the window to let the birds in. They dropped their letters on the coffee table and flew together to settle near the fire, preening.

Harry rolled his eyes and glared at Malfoy before he stepped into the bedroom, trying to ignore the icy glare thrown his way from the bed. He mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ before he gathered some warm clothes that Malfoy could wear even though they were sure to be too short in the arms and legs, and he left again before closing the door behind himself. It wasn’t his fault Malfoy had shown up. “Here.” He tossed the clothes in Malfoy’s direction and turned his eyes away as the man stripped by the fire and changed into them.

Ignoring Malfoy’s grumbling, he went to the couch and sat down, taking the letters in hand and reading them. They were all of a similar theme-- _Harry, Malfoy’s gone missing, thought to be captured. Please return to the Ministry at once_ —and he sighed before he snatched a quill from the end table and scribbled a reply on the back of Kingsley’s letter.

_Kingsley,_

_I have Malfoy in Paris. He is safe. I will return tomorrow on schedule with him. I’ll set the proper wards and everything will be fine. I can’t wait to learn what this is all about._

_Harry_

It took some persuading to get one of the owls to take his letter, but he managed it with treats and neck scratches. When it was sent along, he took his wand in hand and cast wards around the place they were staying before he set his wand down and flopped back on the couch. “Do you want to tell me what the fuck this is all about, Malfoy, or should I just go to bed?”

Draco was shivering by the fire in his new clothes, knees drawn up to his chest and eyes closed. He was exhausted; this was more excitement than he’d had in years. “M.’s driven me out of the Manor. Woke up this morning and it was covered in bloody pictures of me and Weasley and Williamson. I’m not safe there anymore, and they’re not doing a damned thing to protect me, so here I am.” Draco opened his eyes and looked over to Harry as though in challenge. “I’m staying with you. Everybody else is apparently useless, and I’m not too keen on getting captured.”

Harry blinked at Draco and heaved a quiet sigh—he seemed to be sighing a lot on this trip—before he leaned back against the couch and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “They’re perfectly capable of protecting you, Malfoy. I don’t know why you’re coming to me. I’m no more qualified than Ron, and I’m definitely not as qualified as Williamson.”

“Like hell you’re not. You and Shacklebolt are the only ones even remotely interested in this case besides the media. Weasley acts like it’s the worst thing anyone could have done to him and he requested it. Williamson’s about as useful as porridge. M. keeps getting into my house and into my bloody bedroom, and I’m fucking freaked out, okay?” Draco was well-aware that his voice was growing more hysterical by the word, and he shoved his fingers into his hair, pressing his forehead against the heels of his hands. “I don’t like asking you for anything, Potter, but I’m in dire straits. Let me stay with you.” He swallowed thickly, as though his next word was caught in his throat. “ _Please_. Just until this is over.”

Harry rubbed his face in his hands and thought about it for a few minutes. It was an absolutely terrible idea, not necessarily for Malfoy’s safety but for his own peace of mind. He and Ginny were already not doing half as well as he’d have liked, and she was already shutting him out before she even knew what was going on. This would have been the exact definition of bringing his work home with him, and he’d been trying his damnedest not to do that as much. With Malfoy around, work was always going to be with him.

He couldn’t help feeling sorry for Malfoy, though. He thought of the night of Malfoy’s parents’ funerals, when he’d held onto his pint of ale as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded in light of the death of his parents. Harry had a hard time imagining Lucius and Narcissa in the roles of doting parents, but he didn’t have any delusions that they were otherwise. Malfoy was a spoiled shit, the only heir, and he’d known as sure as anything else he knew that when Malfoy was vomiting in the alley behind the pub, when it seemed impossible that he would ever stop crying, that he had had excellent parents.

Now, he was being hunted by a madman, and he didn’t really have anywhere else to go. It was true, Malfoy wasn’t going to be safe at the Manor if M. kept getting into it. He’d seen the pictures, and he probably knew better than anyone the skill of the man sending the threats. He had, after all, been obsessing over the case for months. There was no doubt in his mind that Malfoy was in real, serious trouble, and that pulled at something in him of which he was resentful.

“Fine, but you’re sleeping on the floor tonight, Malfoy, since I’m sure I’m not allowed in the bedroom. We’re going to the Auror Office tomorrow to discuss this with Kingsley.” Harry untied his shoes and set them aside before he swung his legs up onto the couch and lay his head against the arm. “And you’d better leave Ginny alone. She’s going to be apoplectic.”

Draco exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and he felt the tension ebb out of his shoulders. “I’m not looking to talk to either of you much,” he said matter-of-factly, and he put a hand on one of the damp owls. It hooted quietly under the press of his fingers. “I’m sorry for ruining your Valentine’s Day.”

Harry groaned. “Was that an apology? From you? Shove it, and go get me a beer, please.” He needed a drink to obscure the fact that he was never going to get laid again.

Draco figured that it was the least he could do for a promise of asylum. He got up and went to the kitchen, pulling two bottles of beer from the refrigerator and opening them before he went back to the sitting room and pressed one into Harry’s hand. He sat down next to the couch and clinked their bottles together sarcastically before he tipped the bottle up and drank deeply. “Cheers.”

Harry snorted. “Cheers.”

 

*

Ginny still hadn’t spoken to Harry when they left Paris the next day. Evidence of his drinking was all over the coffee table when she got up the next morning and found him snoring on the couch with Malfoy curled up on the ground and looking equally guilty. Anger burned through her; Malfoy had never been a factor before the funerals, and Harry seemed incapable of spending more than a few seconds with him without getting drunk. It was disgusting and frightened her. Sure, it was only the second time, but patterns had to start somewhere.

It wasn’t just the drinking that was unexpected. Harry had been fixated on M.’s case since it started, thus fixated on Malfoy by proxy. When she’d spoken to Hermione about it, Hermione had just sighed and told her that Harry had a tendency towards getting fixated on Malfoy in one way or another. He’d been obsessed with him in his sixth year, and even before that, he was always trying to one-up him. Ginny didn’t see any reason for it; Malfoy didn’t hold a candle to her Harry, even when Harry was drunk and drooling all over the nice Parisian couch. What was there for Harry to worry about?

There seemed to be plenty for Ginny to worry about. She hadn’t realised just how highly Harry prioritized work until Malfoy had shown up the night before, looking for a place to stay. She had listened at the door when he and Harry were talking, and she had nearly come bursting out of the room to hex Malfoy into oblivion when Harry had promised him asylum at their flat. Harry wouldn’t have been immune to her wand, either.

This was all too much for her to handle. She was going to her mother’s.

When they arrived back at their flat in London, Ginny stormed to the bedroom and packed her bag, bristling all the while. Harry didn’t even try to dissuade her—smart of him, she thought—and instead just watched her leave again in a few minutes through the Floo.

Once Ginny was gone, Harry stared at the fireplace for a few moments in stunned silence before he turned away and looked at Malfoy. Malfoy took no time at all to make himself at home, finding the spare bedroom and throwing down his still-damp bag. “Where’s your house-elf, Potter? I need my clothes washed before they mildew.”

“We don’t have a house-elf, Malfoy. The washing machine’s in the kitchen.” He was met with a bewildered stare, and he sighed before he reached out a hand. “Give it here.”

Draco shoved the bag in his hand. “What the hell’s a washing machine, Potter?” he demanded even as he walked past him to try to get a good look at the place. It was drab, something he would have expected from a flat with a Weasley in it, and desperately in need of a Malfoy’s touch. “How do you live here without killing yourself? This place has a lot of potential and you’re squandering it.”

“Shut up, Malfoy, and get in the kitchen. I’m teaching you to use the washing machine because I’ll be damned if I’m doing your laundry.” Harry threw the bag on the floor and dumped out its contents on the linoleum, ignoring the indignant grumble behind him. “Look, you have to separate the colours—one pile for whites, one for darks, one for reds. Put your trousers by themselves. I’m not separating your clothes; I’m not interested in handling your pants.”

Draco felt like a house-elf as he sat on the floor and did as he was instructed, struggling to figure out whether some articles of his clothing counted as darks or not. It didn’t help that Potter was staring at him all the while and correcting him when he was wrong. Still, he managed, and he looked up at his host with a smug smile. “There.”

Harry gestured for him to stand up and showed him the washing machine. “You turn the dial here to how you want it washed. Trousers are going to be heavy-duty, everything else can go on normal or permanent press, unless you have something delicate. You put those on delicate by themselves.”

“They’re all delicate.”

“No they aren’t, you prat. Put in your trousers.” He watched as Malfoy struggled with the wet clothes, though he managed to get them all in. He grabbed the laundry detergent and showed him how high to fill the cap, then dumped the liquid in on his clothes. “Now, you close the lid and push the dial in.”

Draco stared at the machine for a moment before he did as Harry said, yelping in shock when the machine turned on and water began pouring in the basin. He knelt down in front of it and stared in the window, watching with interest. “Careful, Malfoy. You’re going to be working for Mr Weasley soon if you keep this up, tinkering with Muggle toys and asking me how electricity works.”

“Shut up, Potter, I will not.”

 

*

The rendezvous with Kingsley and Malfoy’s fired security detail went about as well as expected.

Kingsley met with the lot of them in his office and sat down at the desk; the alarm which announced Draco breaking the terms of his probation on the desk had been broken. “This is extremely unorthodox,” Kingsley said as he looked up at Draco, who had his hands on the desk and was leaning over it, looking at the case files for M. “There is nothing that says Potter has to keep you in his house. It’s completely against your probation, and I’m not sure you’d be any safer there than at Malfoy Manor.”

Draco’s head shot up and he glared at Kingsley through messy fringe, looking wholly unkempt. “Then what the fuck are you playing at, Shacklebolt?” he demanded. “If I’m not any safer at Potter’s flat, then why are you even fucking trying? The truth, if you would. I don’t want to hear what you’re telling your investors.”

Kingsley sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking up at Williamson and Weasley before he nodded his head. “Fine, Malfoy. You want the truth? The fact of the matter is that I want to catch M. You’re on probation, you’ve got a shit record, and if you get caught, I’m not too pressed about it. You have a choice here, Malfoy. You can be the bait and help us solve a case we’ve been trying to solve for twenty years, and your record gets wiped and we end your probation. Otherwise, you can keep running around Europe trying to get away, and you get caught _anyway_ , and you don’t have a damned thing to show for it except a broken probation and possible jail time.”

Williamson and Weasley nodded their heads as though they had been expecting to hear just this; Harry, on the other hand, looked as horrified as Malfoy did. “Wait, wait. You’re basing the end of his probation on whether he gets caught or not?”

“The truth is, Potter, he’s going to get caught before the end of his probation comes up. He’s still got another three years, and M. never takes that long, not even with the shit he’s not supposed to be able to find. So, I’m making an offer. You get caught, Malfoy, and when we catch M., it’s over. You can do what you please, when you please, with an expunged record.”

Draco looked as though he was going to be sick, and he steadied himself for a long moment before he excused himself. Harry watched him go before he turned on Kingsley. “This isn’t fair, Kingsley, and you know it. It’s absolute bullshit. He’s been fine under the terms of his probation before this; I don’t know why you’re punishing him for it.”

Kingsley watched Draco go as well, and he rubbed his hands together to warm them in the cold office. “I’m not punishing him, Harry. I’m trying to give him an out. Let’s face it, he’s likely to be caught whether I’m giving him an out or not. I’m trying to do him a favour.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Like hell I’m not!” Kingsley gestured at the case files on his desk. “Look, Potter. Look. Do you really think he has a chance?”

Harry stared down at the files he had memorized by heart, and he hesitated for a moment before he shook his head. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to make it easier on M., do you? By leaving Malfoy at the Manor, you’re not going to be able to control when he’s taken. If he’s on tighter security, then you’re going to have a say where him getting caught is concerned. You don’t want to scare him off, do you? Then he’s just going to vanish and we’re never going to catch that bastard.”

Ron sat down in one of the chairs and crossed his arms, looking up at Harry. “By keeping him in your flat, you’re not just putting him danger, but Ginny and yourself as well. Is Malfoy worth that risk? Is Malfoy worth risking Ginny?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think Ginny and I are in any danger, Ron. M. wants Draco, not us. Besides, what are you thinking? You’re a fucking Auror, Ron. We’re supposed to protect people. This is protecting somebody, even if it is Malfoy. I don’t like it any more than Ginny does, _believe me_ , but this is exactly the sort of shit we signed up for.” He gestured at Kingsley and Williamson. “Don’t tell me you don’t think it’s bullshit that they’re using anybody as bait. How would you feel if it were Hermione that was needed for it?”

“Are you comparing me and Hermione to you and _Malfoy_?”

“Fuck, no, Ron. Think about what I’m saying for a minute, would you? Excuse me, I’m going to go find Malfoy and make sure he’s not run off to Venezuela or something. When I get back, we’re continuing this discussion.”

Harry stormed out of the office, leaving Kingsley alone with Williamson and Ron. Williamson shrugged his shoulders when the door slammed shut. “I mean, he kind of has a point. If we let Malfoy stay at Potter’s, we’re going to be able to get a controlled capture and have a way better chance of catching M.”

Kingsley hummed lowly, considering that. “I hadn’t thought about it. He does have a point, you’re right.” He looked over at Ron. “Though I don’t necessarily agree with putting your sister in danger, I think that it might be a worthwhile consideration.”

Ron rolled his eyes and looked away. “Protect and serve. Never thought we’d be doing it for fucking Malfoy. I was on board when he was just bait.”

Harry slammed the door when he left the office, looking up and down the hall for some sign of where Malfoy might have gone. He grabbed one of the interns as she made her way past, and she pointed down towards the bathrooms. “Went running that way.” Harry fixed her with a grateful smile before he went to the men’s room and stepped inside.

“Malfoy, are you in here?” he called. There wasn’t an answer, but when he checked under the stall doors, he saw a pair of too-short trousers showing too-pale ankles. “…Malfoy.” He pushed the door, which Draco hadn’t bothered to lock, and looked down at him with his arms crossed. “I wouldn’t sit on the floor if I were you. These bastards aren’t the cleanest.”

Draco was curled around himself on the floor, chin on his knees, looking perfectly miserable. He didn’t even look up at Potter when he came barging in the stall, just tightened his arms around his knees. He winced when Potter lifted a leg over his shoulder and flushed the toilet behind him. “I didn’t think they’d…” He trailed off and fought down another surge of nausea. “I’m not fucking bait, Potter. I’m a person. Did you know about this?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry, Malfoy. I’m going to try to get them to change their minds, but it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if you’re not sitting in here puking up breakfast. Three against two is better odds than three against one, surprisingly.” He reached down a hand, offering to help him up. “Come on. You’re not going to be bait.”

Draco looked up at him, looking paler than usual, and he made a face. “Offering me your hand in friendship, Potter? You’re about ten years too late.” He could still manage sarcasm on a dingy bathroom floor, no matter how terrified he was. It was, after all, his first go-to defence.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Offering you my protection. I’m not interested in being fond of you in any capacity, especially since you’ve likely eliminated any chance I have of getting laid for the next month.”

Draco put his hand in Harry’s and pulled himself to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself. “Saint Potter. My hero,” he said, voice dripping with that defensive sarcasm. “Let me out, or I’ll puke on your shoes.”

“If you puke on my shoes, I’m going to lock you in the loo at my place and not let you out until you’ve scrubbed them clean with your own toothbrush. No magic, house-elf style.” He made a face at the thought, and he promptly shoved Malfoy out and into the hallway. “Get back to the office. We’re going to work this out.”

When they arrived back in Kingsley’s office, the mood seemed to have lightened considerably, and Harry looked between the three Aurors, who’d looked up when they arrived. “So, either way you decide, Malfoy’s going to stay at my flat. Did you come up with a way to work around that?”

Kingsley smiled at Harry and gave an encouraging nod to Malfoy. “We thought about what you had to say, Potter, and that’s fine. We will work on adjusting the terms of Malfoy’s probation; in the meantime, he can stay with you regardless. We’ve decided that it would be best to know where he is at all times during this case.”

Draco breathed a sigh of relief and leaned up against the wall, his head pounding. This was too much excitement for him in two days, and it was giving him a migraine; he wasn’t made for intrigue and politics, much less for Aurors with puffed-up egos. He was going to cut supplements to the Ministry as soon as he was sure that it wasn’t going to compromise his probation, most particularly to the funds that fed the Auror Office. Perhaps it would put Weasley out of a job.

Harry was still tense as he looked between the two senior Aurors and his best mate, looking distrustful as he tried to get a read on them. Ron simply shrugged his shoulders at him. “Fine,” Harry said at last. “Give him free range of my flat and a proximity to me, so he can get some air. I don’t want Malfoy with cabin fever destroying my furniture—”

“I’m not a cat.”

“—or driving Ginny mad. Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

Kingsley nodded his head, making a few notes and ignoring Malfoy’s mild protests from behind his team. “I’ll see what I can do. Please get him out of my office before I change my mind, Potter.”

Harry thanked him and nodded at Ron before he gestured for Malfoy to follow him out of the office and back to the flat they were now sharing.

 

*

Ginny stared into her cup of coffee at the table in the Burrow, not looking up at her mother. “I just don’t understand, Mum. Was it this hard for you and Dad?” she asked, stirring her coffee with a teaspoon.

Molly sighed softly. “All relationships are hard the first few years when you move in together. I told you that you should have waited a while before doing it. Not that I blame you, of course; Arthur and I didn’t wait either, but the first few years are hard. They were pretty hard for us, too. I spent a lot of time at my mother’s table,” she admitted with a smile. She reached over and tucked a lock of Ginny’s hair back behind her ear.

“I don’t suppose Dad ever invited a Malfoy to live with you?”

Molly laughed. “I can’t say he did, sweetheart, but Harry’s an Auror. Ron’s been all over this case, too. This is what an Auror has to do sometimes, take in a witness or someone who’s being tracked. It’s not easy, from what I hear.” She dropped another sugar cube into Ginny’s coffee. “Tonks always said that Auror training was really rough, but it was just a stepping stone to the really difficult work. Look what she had to endure. If you and Harry’s relationship is strong enough, then you’ll battle through.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, and she took a drink of her sugary coffee before she grumbled. “I’m not sure it is all that strong, mum. Sometimes I wonder. You know, I thought that he was going to propose in Paris. It was perfect. He even had reservations. I stared at my glass of champagne expecting a ring.”

Molly smiled at her. “He is taking his time, but Harry does things in his own way. If he didn’t expect to marry you, then he wouldn’t have asked you to come live with him.” She took a drink of her own coffee and waved her wand at the stove to make sure the stew was stirred. “Harry’s been through a lot. You knew going into this that you were going to have to be patient with him. Wars like that aren’t easy on anyone’s mind, and Harry went through more than most.”

Ginny groaned quietly. “I’m not sure that I have enough patience for Harry and Malfoy both. Someone’s going to get hexed before this is over. I just…” She trailed off and hesitated before she continued. “I wish that Malfoy would get caught already and things could go back to normal. When Harry’s trying, Merlin, it’s wonderful, mum. When he’s occupied by something big, I just wonder how long it’ll take for the day to end. Lately, he’s just been focused elsewhere.”

Molly couldn’t help laughing at that. “Oh, honey. Believe me, I know. Look at Arthur. He gets fixated on his Muggle contraptions and I’ve had to deal with that for decades. It’s worth it, though. He’s a good father and a good husband. I couldn’t ask for more. Once you get to the point where you _know_ , then go with it. He’ll know then, too, and everything will turn out right.”

“What if we never get to that point, mum?” Ginny looked up at her finally, her eyes wide. “What if it doesn’t get any better?”

Molly sighed at Ginny and considered what she could say to that. She didn’t really know how to comfort her daughter; relatively, it had been much easier with Arthur. There was never a lack of passion, even after being together so long, and they agreed on much more than Harry and Ginny ever did. “Well,” she said after a few moments. “I suppose that if it isn’t working, Ginny...then it’s not working. You don’t want to torture yourself forever trying to make something work. If it came down to it, we wouldn’t be angry at either of you. You know that. We just want you to both be happy.”

 

*

It seemed as though it had been weeks. Pansy’s captor was always cloaked and indistinguishable as far as features were concerned; all she could tell was that the person was tall and did not speak. Food was given twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening—at least, Pansy presumed those were the times—and it was always disgusting. She didn’t like to think about what she might be eating.

From what she could reason out, she was being housed with dragons or something like them. They never breathed fire, but they stank like she assumed dragons must stink, and they never seemed to stop roaring. She was getting used to it; she could sleep through it now, and it didn’t make her wet herself like it had the first time. That didn’t mean that she was any less terrified than she had been the first night. While then it had been a fear of immediate bodily harm, now Pansy was afraid that she was going to be locked in this hell forever.

One day, her captor seemed to be particularly incensed, coming down the stairs in a rush and grumbling. “You have a job to do, Parkinson. If you want out, you’re going to cooperate to the fullest.”

Pansy shook, as she hadn’t yet been directly addressed, and she managed to nod her head. “Y-yes, of course! Anything! Just please, let me go!”

 

*

Harry was starting to get comfortable with Malfoy in his and Ginny’s flat, even if Ginny hadn’t come home yet. It had been three days since they’d returned from Paris, and Malfoy was more decent about the whole situation than Harry would have anticipated. He spent most of his time keeping to himself, writing to his friends or watching the telly once he’d figured out what it did. He seemed to like it a lot, and he spent hours on it every day with the remote switching between channels every few minutes.

“You know you can watch one thing for more than five seconds, Malfoy,” Harry snapped at him that evening as he was making his way through primetime shows. “Most of them last at least half an hour. They have storylines, for fuck’s sake.”

Draco looked over at him from the couch; Potter had been working from home since he had come to stay. Kingsley said that it was a good idea to keep his eye on Draco at all times, and Harry didn’t seem to mind that he could work from home, and so he had his files spread out over the coffee table near the couch. He was, at that moment, staring closely at a copy of one of M.’s recent threats, as though he could find some reason in it. “You’re awfully tetchy when you’ve got a beer or two in you, Potter. You should relax. It’s not good for your heart, being so mad all the time.” He flipped the channel again, just to prove a point. “Should you be drinking while you’re working? For shame.”

Harry growled low in his chest and looked over at Malfoy with a full-force glare. “No one asked you,” he said firmly, “and maybe I’d relax if you didn’t change the bloody station every time I started half-listening to something.” Maybe he _had_ been working for too long; his neck ached and it was already getting dark outside. The clock on the wall chimed six, and he set the note down, leaning back against the recliner behind himself and heaving a sigh. “Gimme the fuckin’ remote, Malfoy.” He held out his hand expectantly.

Draco leaned forward and plopped it into his palm. For all his sarcasm and, admittedly, scathing wit, he was very grateful to Potter for all of this. He loathed to admit that it wasn’t really fair of him to have imposed like this, especially since it had driven the girl-weasel out of the flat, but he was happier without her there. Potter was a riot when he was working; he didn’t know why she got so angry at Potter for being hilarious for hours on end.

Potter didn’t work quietly. He grumbled and bitched at his work, agonizing over every stroke of the pen and every word on the page. He got into it and argued with himself, fought with the pages and with his quill, and he snapped at least a half dozen of them in the process of a few hours. He got frustrated and flopped around, and he huffed at everything that moved. It was a good show, and Draco didn’t understand how anyone could be anything but amused by it.

“Thank you.” Harry pointed the remote at the television and began to flip through the channels, eliciting a cry of protest from Draco as he moved too quickly for his taste. “Oh shut up. I’m going to find something good. Here, while I do it…” He gestured at the table between them. “Why don’t _you_ look this shit over and tell me if you see any hints.”

Draco shrugged and went to the kitchen to get a second beer for himself before he came back to the sitting room and plopped down in front of the table. He looked around before he got started and then pursed his lips. “Potter, I’ve been trying real hard here, but I’m dying at this point. You care if I smoke while I do this?”

Harry started to say no, then realised that Ginny wasn’t there and he shrugged. “Go for it, Malfoy. Bum me one, will you? I’m stressed.” Harry didn’t typically smoke cigarettes, but he did take the occasional cigarette break when he was at work when things got to be too much. It was an easy way to relax for a few minutes and clear his mind. He thought that, if not for Ginny, it was something he might’ve been addicted to in very little time.

Draco regarded his host with an expression of shock before he nodded his head. “Never would have guessed.” He tossed the pack to him and watched with curiosity as Potter withdrew a single fag and lit it with the tip of his wand; he took a deep drag and held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before he exhaled it in a long breath and a groan, going limp against the chair behind himself. “You’re a mess, Potter. You drink too much and now you’re a chimney. You were made for the Auror Office. You just need to acquire the surly attitude—wait.” He lit his own cigarette and conjured up an ashtray, setting it on the table before he started to look M.’s work over, smirking all the while.

Harry settled on an old horror movie in black and white, setting down the remote afterward and leaning his head back against the cushion of the chair with which he was propping himself up. “It’s no wonder all the Aurors are assholes, Malfoy. Look at the shit that gets thrown our way. This case is twenty years and running.”

Draco hummed and nodded his head. “Let’s hope it doesn’t last for much longer.”

They worked on the case together in silence save for the campy movie on television, sharing a pack of cigarettes in the closest thing to companionship they had ever shared—that was, they weren’t screaming at each other and trying to hex each other’s heads off in light of a shared goal. Well into the evening, when the flat was filled with stale cigarette smoke and they were working on their second six-pack of beer, a key slid into the lock at the door, and they both leapt unsteadily to their feet, wands in hand. The Muggle in the horror movie chose the perfect moment to scream.

Much to their relief, they were greeted by Ginny, who made a horrible face at the smell of the apartment and levelled Malfoy with a scathing glare. “Harry, what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, waving her hand as she came in the sitting room. Her eyes landed on the ashtray and the beer bottle graveyard, and she threw her bag down on the ground. “Since when do you _smoke_? Malfoy, if you’re staying in my fucking flat, you’re not going to be a shit influence on Harry!”

Draco snorted. “Oh, well excuse me.”

Harry blushed and lowered his wand. “Sorry, Gin,” he said sheepishly, and he reached down to pick up her bag. “We were just working. I…are you home now?”

Ginny sighed forcefully at him, but something within her did a little dance. Harry was an absolute mess without her; that had to mean something. She nodded her head and walked imperiously to the bedroom, and Harry followed along behind her without as much as a by-your-leave to Draco.

Draco didn’t care in the least; if anything, he was incredibly amused by the way Harry took to heel, and he smirked as their bedroom door closed. He wondered briefly whether he was going to hear fighting or fucking, and the first creaks of the bed answered the question for him. “Fucking gross,” he muttered to himself as he settled back down at the table and began going through the files again. The Slytherins would be lighting a candlelight vigil for him if they’d known his predicament.

He felt as though he should have been given a medal for having to listen to what was no doubt pasty, freckled, clumsy sex in which no one could possibly have been satisfied, even though he cheered Potter on the whole time in return for not putting a Silencing Charm on the bedroom. The outraged squawking from the next room was enough to satisfy him, and he was quiet when the racket died down. When the door opened, he expected Potter to swagger out with all of the pride of a man who thought he was an excellent lay.

Instead, Ginny came out, and Harry could be heard snoring already. “Typical man,” Draco commented sarcastically as she shut the door behind herself. It earned him a smirk, and he leaned back against the couch. “You coming to work, Weasley? The sooner we get it figured out, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

Ginny did indeed come over to the table, and she sat down across from Draco; she did not, however, as much as glance at the paperwork between them. Instead, she focused her gaze on Draco, intense and annoyed. “Listen here, Malfoy. You can stay in our flat. I’m not going to put up a fuss, try to kick you out, whatever, but listen to me when I tell you that if you do anything, _anything_ , to fuck this up for me, you’re dead. I will put you out on the street for M. to catch and I will advertise your vulnerability on the billboards.”

Draco looked up at her and had the bollocks to light a cigarette; she looked as though she wanted to throw a bucket of water over his head. “I’m not trying to fuck up your weird, failing relationship, Weasley. If I did, you ought to thank me for it. That was the least interesting sex I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard a lot of sex. If Potter leaves you, he’s a moron. He lucked out. Never did see what you saw in him.”

Ginny blinked at Malfoy in confusion for a moment. “Are you flirting with me, Malfoy?” she asked, genuinely trying to figure it out.

Draco snorted a cloud of smoke through his nose and coughed riotously for a few moments before he laughed. “Merlin, Weasley, _no_. Perish the thought. You’re just the least obnoxious of the Weasleys by half, and your hexes are legendary; Potter’s just about useless.” He took another drink of his beer then offered her the last bottle. “As long as we’re stuck together, we may as well strike a truce. So?”

Ginny hesitated for a moment when Draco offered her the bottle; she wasn’t inclined to disagree with most of what he was saying at the moment. She took it from his hand after a moment and lifted it in a mock-toast before she took a long drink, pulling a face at how it tasted. “I really hate beer,” she coughed, even as she made to take a second drink.

“Yes, well, I hate all of this, and I’m right in the bloody thick of it. Welcome to the club, Weasley.”

For the first time, Ginny settled down to look at the case files with the intent of understanding them, even if it was with a Muggle movie crackling in the background and dreadful company.

 

*

With the threat of Voldemort eliminated save for the actions of the last of his followers, the Auror Office and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in general was able to focus on the more interesting cases. Kingsley qualified ‘more interesting’ as those cases which were, typically, non-lethal but with a hefty amount of intrigue. He liked to work on cases where people’s lives weren’t necessarily in jeopardy, even if they were dealing with dark witches and wizards.

When he had first joined the Auror Office, the case file for M. was already sizeable, so it wasn’t his baby. His favourite case had been within his first year after attaining his license, when a dark wizard had taken inspiration from Muggle serial killers and started sending clues as to his location and motives. They were all coded, and they were muddied by copycats, but through months of overnight work and tireless staring at codes and clues, there had been a break in the case. He wasn’t killing his victims, but kidnapping Muggle children and practicing illegal spells on them.

Kingsley could still remember how it felt when the code was broken and they’d begun utilizing Ministry cartographers to find the old house he’d been using to house the children. He remembered the look on the faces of the children when he’d come in with his team, the feeling of tiny arms wrapping around his neck, and the smiles on the faces of the parents when they were brought to St. Mungo’s to see that their children were, in fact, all right. He often wondered how they were faring as adults. They had, of course, had their memories wiped of the entire experience, but he wondered if it still affected them somehow.

He hoped not.

M.’s case was not something that had ever held his interest for very long; it was one that interested the Aurors who had some fascination with magical creatures. M. had never taken a human before as far as they knew; Draco Malfoy was the first that had been announced, and M. had a flair for theatrics. It was as though he was desperate to be caught, that he wanted to show off his work to whomever would see it.

Because Malfoy was the first, however, they started keeping an eye on those to whom Draco had been closest in his life. Kingsley wasn’t sure that it was a good use of their time, as Malfoy hadn’t kept contact with anyone after his trials save for his parents, and they had been on the run and untraceable. Earlier that week, despite his opinion on the matter, Potter had made a list of the people to whom Malfoy had been close in school, and he was looking at it on his desk.

 

_Gregory Goyle_

_Pansy Parkinson_

_Blaise Zabini_

_Millicent Bulstrode_

_Graham Montague_

_Marcus Flint_

_Cassius Warrington_

Kingsley hadn’t even heard of most of these people; then again, he hadn’t been in Hogwarts very much. Some last names were ones he most certainly recognised—Goyle, whose father was in Azkaban, and Parkinson, whose parents had been strictly neutral in the war and had herself been put on trial as Malfoy had. She hadn’t been Marked, and there was very little evidence against her save for her attempt to hand Potter over at the Battle of Hogwarts, so she had been put on a year’s probation. Gregory Goyle was under house arrest for another year, and it seemed as though he was going to be released on time. Blaise Zabini had a very famous family name, with his mother being a woman heavily suspected of being a black widow; there wasn’t enough evidence to convict her for anything. The other names didn’t mean much to him at all.

Kingsley thought that keeping up with the Slytherins was possibly one of the most boring jobs on the planet. Every day, he went through the Prophet to look for their names and kept his ear open on the streets in search of whispers. So far, there hadn’t been a single one.

Well, there hadn’t been until that morning. Kingsley had not thought to keep his ear on the wizarding wireless, and he’d been flipping through the stations when he heard the name ‘Zabini’. He’d flipped back immediately.

“—Zabini asks that anyone with any information step forward.” Kingsley heaved a sigh; he’d missed most of the broadcast. He took a fresh parchment and quill in hand, and he penned a letter to Blaise.

_Blaise Zabini,_

_I heard this morning that you are seeking information. Please reply._

_Sincerely,_

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_

Kingsley found that one of the best ways to approach someone who had something you wanted was to not bring it up at all; the simplicity of his message was sure to cause some anger, and that would be when Zabini would spill everything whether he meant to do so or not.

Luckily, a reply was forthcoming. Zabini wasted no time whatsoever in writing, and Kingsley had his note on his desk by the end of the day.

 

_Auror Shacklebolt,_

_Is the Auror Office already looking for Pansy? She disappeared about a week and a half ago when we were on holiday in South Durras._

_Blaise Zabini_

So, Pansy Parkinson was missing. That seemed too close to home to ignore. There hadn’t been anything in the paper about it, though Kingsley supposed that there wouldn’t have been. The press was shying away from those who had been on the wrong side of the Second War unless they were being pursued, in the courtroom, or at the centre of a scandal. It was, perhaps, time for the Prophet to run something other than its usual drivel.

 

_Blaise Zabini,_

_Please send me as much information as you can about Parkinson’s disappearance, and I will personally ensure that the Daily Prophet aids you in your search._

_Sincerely,_

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_

 

*

Draco liked staying at Potter’s flat.

He didn’t like the company so much, if he was being honest with himself. Potter himself wasn’t terrible, but Weasley was often purposefully obnoxious and drove him to bed early most nights just so he could get away from her. She didn’t even target him that often; Potter was usually the one she fixated on, and Draco felt bad for the bloke against his better judgment.

He had been staying there for three weeks, and it had taken exactly two hours of being in their joined presence before he knew that Potter and Weasley had been on the rocks for a while. It was no small wonder why—Weasley had, in his opinion, completely unrealistic expectations of Potter, and it only seemed to be getting worse.

He’d heard them fighting the night after she had returned to the flat, catching from the conversation that Potter worked too much and didn’t spend enough time with her, that he never took time for just the two of them, that she wasn’t always sure why she stuck around when he was showing no signs of commitment, that the war was over so why weren’t they doing what they had promised? Draco didn’t know what that entailed, and he wasn’t particularly interested in knowing about it. What he did know, however, was that Potter didn’t stick up for himself, and it was all rather pathetic. He hadn’t even taken Potter for a doormat, but he never seemed to defend himself against Weasley’s near-constant onslaught of expectation and disappointment. Sure, he personally thought that Potter was one fat sack of disappointment, but Weasley wasn’t supposed to feel that way.

Potter didn’t seem to know what to say to her when she started going off on him like that, and Draco noted that he would withdraw in any way he could. He didn’t seem to like what she had to say on a deeper level than what one would have expected, and he remembered how his mother and father had told him about the Muggle family Potter had stayed with as a child. The look of resignation in his nemesis’ eyes was one that looked practiced.

Still, Draco liked staying there. The flat lacked the carefully-constructed perfection of the Malfoy Manor, looked lived-in and loved, and it had creature comforts that the cold regality of the Manor lacked. The couch seemed to swallow him whole, the kitchen was filled with things meant to make cooking very quick (even if he’d managed to break the microwave with the wrong spell and the stove scared the hell out of him), and they had a television. Draco liked the television. It was filled with Muggles doing ridiculous and inane things such as getting stuck on an island (why didn’t they justApparate away?), dating each other poorly, and arguing with each other about how things worked without magic. They did get one thing right, though: Draco loved cooking shows.

Draco spent most of his days in the flat draped over the couch, listening to Potter argue over his case and watching the Food Network. Who knew how much work went into meal preparation? He had got so excited over one of the programs that he’d demanded that Potter take a break from the case one afternoon and take him to the market so he could gather ingredients and try to cook something from the show. Potter was an all right cook and Weasley was atrocious, so Draco wanted something real for dinner.

Potter had acquiesced to his request and had cast Disillusionment Charms over the both of them so they could go to the market together. Draco had made a little list of ingredients and he’d gathered them with care; Potter had shown him how to discern whether or not an avocado was ripe, and he had chosen one to the best of his ability. He learned the importance of refrigeration and keeping greens damp, having had his head in the greens cooler when the sprinklers turned on and soaked him from the neck up. He learned about expiration dates and he’d even taken the time to help Potter choose a bouquet of flowers for Weasley.

When they got back to the flat, Draco had taken to the kitchen with a fury, turning on the stove much too high for the pork chops he was making and spilling half the salt on the floor. Touching the raw meat disgusted him and the utensils were completely baffling; still, Potter stood by and kept him in check, saying that he had learned to cook as a child. He seemed glad to have a distraction, and the dinner they made was definitely edible despite having nearly been burned at one point. “Potter, I require an apron next time. See that you get one for me.”

“Conjure one up yourself, Malfoy. I’m not going clothes shopping for you.”

The three of them sat down to dinner together. Ginny liked her flowers, having kissed Harry right on the mouth when he handed them over; they were sitting in a vase near the kitchen window (they had their table in the kitchen, how barbaric) and Draco was proud of his choice. He wanted the other two occupants of the flat to be happy, since that meant that he got to get some proper sleep and it didn’t put Potter in a mood when he was working. That made everyone happier.

Dinner had gone over well that night, so Draco expressed an interest in cooking more often. When Ginny wasn’t home, presumably at Quidditch practice, Draco didn’t much care about making dinner; when she was home, he liked to cook because it seemed to keep everyone in higher spirits. He knew that they resented his presence despite their resignation to it, and while a younger Draco would have been happy to squeeze them for every Galleon they had, he found himself wanting to contribute somehow to the household. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere soon, after all.

Despite her seemingly-constant need to start a fight, Draco found that he didn’t mind Ginny all that much when she was on her own and in good spirits. Her training for the Holyhead Harpies was interesting, and he liked to hear her talk about it, having had an avid interest in professional Quidditch as a child. When she and Harry were having a row, she often came to Draco to either pick a fight with him as well (usually unsuccessfully) or try to forget that she was fighting by watching the Food Network with him and talking about her day.

Ginny was combative and fiery and Draco thought that if she hadn’t been a Weasley, she might have been someone Draco would be interested in. She wasn’t particularly girly or delicate; she liked to fight and get her hands dirty. He liked that about a person. He was certain that she and Potter weren’t going to last another six months, and he hoped that he would be gone when the whole thing fell apart. He was sure the fight would ring in his ears for days.

So it was that Draco was sitting on the couch, a glass of cheap wine from a box in hand, one leg thrown up onto the cushions and the other foot on the coffee table. He was three large glasses in and feeling rather good about life when Potter came out of the bedroom and stormed into the kitchen; the door to the bedroom slammed behind him and he could hear Ginny screeching, “The Burrow!” into the fireplace from behind the door. When Potter reappeared in the living room with a bottle of what looked to be whiskey, Draco dropped both feet to the floor and watched him come over to flop down next to him on the couch.

“Trouble in paradise again, Potter?” he asked sarcastically, and he laughed a bit louder than he intended at the scathing look he got in response. “What is it this time? Got your socks on the wrong feet? Maybe it’s more serious, and you tried to put it in the wrong hole? Either way, Potter, you got the _bottle_. How savage.”

Potter took a long swing from the bottle and savoured the whiskey in his mouth before he swallowed it, and Draco shuddered from head to foot in disgust. “I don’t really feel like talking about this, Malfoy. I really, _really_ don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, that’s clear. Too bad for you, I’m tipsy enough to be interested in hearing about it. Is it always like this, then?”

Potter took another drink and Draco grumbled in protest, turning his eyes away as though it were something indecent to behold. He turned his eyes back to the television while his annoyed companion assaulted his liver in silence, and he had almost forgotten he’d asked anything when Potter started talking, whiskey rough in his throat.

“It’s always like this, yeah. Always. I’m always on bloody eggshells with her, and I don’t even do anything half the damn time. I don’t know why she’s so fucking hacked off all the time. I’m doing my best, for fuck’s sake.” He didn’t look over at Draco when he spoke, glaring at the television and pausing occasionally to take another drink from the bottle.

Draco looked over at him and gave a long-suffering sigh before he set down his glass of wine and reached over to extract the bottle from Harry’s hands. “Slow it down there, Potter, it’s not juice.”

“Why the fuck does she think I even do all this work? To piss her off? I’m trying to fucking make sure she can be comfortable, and her fucking parents, and everybody. Everybody’s got to be comfortable, I’m taking care of them, I can’t fucking sustain it forever on what’s in my vault at Gringotts. She wants a fucking big wedding, well, fuck me, Malfoy, that shit isn’t cheap. She’ll want a big ring and a big dress and the perfect venue and the perfect security and _fuck_ —”

Draco reached up a hand and cut him off mid-sentence; Harry turned angry eyes towards him and stared. “You don’t have to take care of the Weasleys, Potter. They’re doing just fine on their own, and you know it. You don’t have to give everyone a mansion for helping you out during the war.” He took another sip of his boxed wine and leaned back against the soft cushions of the couch, wriggling his toes comfortably on the hardwood. “Why are you even talking about a wedding? Is that what all this is over?”

“I don’t fucking know. She wants to get married.”

Draco hummed and swirled his glass, fingers holding the stem with delicacy as he thought about it. “What about you, then? You want to marry the Weaselette and have a litter of ginger babies? What does she want, seven?” When Potter opened his mouth to retort, he held up his hand again. “Now listen, Potter. I know what a good marriage looks like. My mother and father had the best marriage I’ve ever seen, and that makes me an authority on these things, you know.”

“You haven’t even shagg—”

“I have shagged a thousand women, Potter, all better-looking than Weasley! That’s not the point. What I was trying to say before you _interrupted_ me was that you shouldn’t marry somebody to try to fix something. Weddings and babies aren’t bandages for shit relationships.” He waved his wine glass at Harry. “Why the hell are you even living with her if she hates you so much? Not that I blame her, mind, I just can’t figure out what the fuck you’re thinking.”

Harry was quiet for a little while, long enough for the sudden onslaught of whiskey he’d downed to get its fingers into him. He pressed his lips together, feeling them tingle, and he eyed the bottle again before he reached out and took a smaller drink of it. “It’s not all shit.”

“Is so. Even the sex is shit, I hear it. _Believe me, Potter, I fucking hear it_.”

Harry stared at him, smug in his too-expensive pyjamas with his cheap Franzia, and he chewed on his lip. “It’s shit, isn’t it?” he asked after another long pause.

Draco thought his eyes would roll right out of his head, and he reached over to snatch the bottle again. “No more for you, Potter; you’re already drunk and it’s not helping you. You’re bloody daft. _Yes_ , you tosser, it’s looking pretty shit from over here. So why? You two hate each other, and every time she screams at you, you get all mopey and weird about it. Fucking call it off, would you? Some of us are trying to get some sleep around here most nights.”

Harry watched his bottle get pulled from his hands, and he flopped back against the back of the couch. Draco sighed at him, fearing that he was going to get drunk Potter tears all over his shoulder; he was pleasantly surprised when he saw the old, familiar fire of anger in the man’s eyes. “Y’know, the whole time I was on the run, I thought about her and how perfect everything was going to be when I got back. It never was, though. We were fucking busy, going to all those funerals, then I started working and she thought that she would be happy staying at home a little while. I told her to go for it, but she would get bored I guess, and she’d be angry when I got home over stupid shit. I forgot to throw my socks in the hamper, I didn’t come home for lunch because I was out on assignment, and I forgot the milk.” He balled up his fists; Draco leaned away a bit. “Now she’s never fucking happy, and she wonders why I’m not all over her. I don’t fucking know, Ginny, maybe it’s because you’re a fucking harpy.”

“Whoa, Pott—”

“And maybe I don’t want to fucking marry her at all if she’s being like this! It’s a fucking chore to get her in bed and then she just fucking lies there like a—”

“Way too much informat—”

“—dead fish and I have to do all the fucking work, and you _know what_?”

Draco stared at him for a moment before he realised that it wasn’t a rhetorical question, and he cleared his throat. “Oh, er. What?”

“ _Maybe I do spend so much time on my work so I don’t have to spend time with her_!” Harry was breathing hard, mania in his eyes, and he stared at Draco as though he needed some validation on the whole thing.

Draco cleared his throat, and he sighed at him before he leaned forward and took the bottle of whiskey in hand, shoving it back at Potter and watching him down another swallow of it. “Well done,” he said quietly, sipping his own wine, and he settled down a bit. “So leave her, Potter. You’re just dragging it on for no good reason. You’ll both be happier for it, and I’ll be ecstatic because I’ll be able to relax around here.”

Harry didn’t reply to that, simply falling into companionable, drunken silence and turning his attention to _30 Minute Meals_. Draco watched him for a little while, monitoring his alcohol intake for as long as it kept his interest before he focused on Rachael Ray. “I have this cookbook. I summoned one from the bookshop,” he proclaimed proudly.

“Let’s make this for dinner tomorrow, then.”

Draco nodded his head. “Yes, all right.”

 

When Ginny came back home in the middle of the night, she noted that the bed was empty and rolled her eyes; Harry had likely gone out to a bar and spent the whole of the evening repenting for their fight. She smirked to herself in triumph and went out to the living room to declare herself the winner to Malfoy.

Instead of finding Draco in his usual late-night position of staring at the telly by himself, she blinked as she found both Harry and Malfoy passed out on the couch. Evidence of their drinking was aplenty—the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table had a significant portion missing, and there was an empty box of Franzia threatening to topple onto the ground. Malfoy had fallen asleep with his mouth hanging open, head leaned back with his face towards the ceiling; Harry, on the other hand, was slumped against Malfoy’s shoulder, drooling heavily on the expensive fabric of his sleeping shirt.

“Oh, fuck the both of you,” she grumbled under her breath, turning off the television with the remote and leaving them on the couch as they were.

As she changed into something suitable for sleeping, she felt jealousy pricking at the back of her mind. When was the last time she and Harry fell asleep on the couch watching television, or really spent any time together that didn’t end in fighting? She realised that Malfoy had been keeping Harry constant company for the past three weeks, but that didn’t mean that Harry should have been comfortable enough to pass out on him, drunk or not.

 _Harry always gets fixated on Malfoy, Ginny. One way or another, I wouldn’t worry about it too much._ She wondered if Hermione’s advice applied to Harry being comfortable enough to do that; then again, she supposed that even she was starting to enjoy Malfoy’s company in some capacity. He was a giant prat, of course, but he could be funny and he wasn’t entirely useless around the flat. He even played Exploding Snap with her one night when Harry had run to the Ministry for something.

Malfoy had grown up, and he wasn’t half-bad even when he was in a foul mood. She supposed it was because he was being hunted by a madman, but their truce had been going over well and she could admit to herself that she was coming to like him.

Not as a person, of course. Not really. He was just being really decent about the whole thing, and she really, really liked his pork chops.


	2. The Thrill of the Hunt: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Draco Malfoy is named the last surviving pureblooded wizard in Europe, a mysterious underworld trader and collector known as M. takes an interest in adding him to a true world-class collection of dangerous magical creatures. Harry Potter must juggle the last of his Auror training, a failing relationship with Ginny Weasley, and a growing issue with alcoholism while managing to keep Draco from being captured and trying to follow a decades-old trail which will lead to the identity and location of M. before it's too late.
> 
>  **Book Featured:** Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

 

***Part Two***

_And the things that we fear are a weapon to be held against us._

_Ian Rush_

“You have to do exactly as I say, do you understand?”

Pansy was shaking and elated. For the first time in weeks, she had been let out of her cage and was seated in a beautiful dining room, parchment spread out before her on the old oak table. When dinner was brought to her, it wasn’t the mouldy gruel she’d been eating since she’d arrived, but a lavish feast fit for a lot more than just the two of them. She’d eaten like a woman possessed, devouring her portion and more of turkey, dressing, and potatoes, all of it. The wine tasted of ambrosia, and with a buzzing head, she turned her mind to the task at hand.

“I understand,” she whispered.

“Good.” Cool hands fell onto her shoulders, and her captor leaned in to look at the parchment on the table. “You will write a letter. We are going to start keeping correspondence, yes? If you do a good job, then you may go home when your job is finished.”

“T-today?” Pansy jerked her head to the side and stared at M. “Today, really?”

M.’s laughter rang through the large room, echoing off the cold walls.

“My darling, I said when the job is done. One letter does not a job make.”

Pansy sucked in a breath through her teeth and then nodded her head. “How silly of me,” she whispered. “You will be dictating, I imagine?”

“No, of course not. I am just here to give you a push in the right direction. I do, however, think that the letter should start off as usual. ‘Dear Draco’…”

 

*

Harry leaned back against the couch, unseating Malfoy’s arm from the back. “Sorry,” he murmured to deaf ears; Rachael Ray was on, and Draco was her thrall. He ignored his guest for the moment and squinted at the paper in his hands, chewing on his lip.

There had to be a pattern. People like M. loved patterns, loved leading the Ministry on a chase that would ultimately lead to their downfalls. He had left a trail before which led them to the Kilnaborris Bog in Ireland, but they’d been lost after that. The trail had gone cold, with no clues afterward, even though they spent weeks after searching the surrounding area looking for something, anything, to go on.

Harry hated to admit it, but he was getting attached to this case. He wanted to crack it more than anything else, if for nothing but to make sure that Malfoy didn’t miss his damned television programmes. They had spent innumerable hours together since Malfoy’s intrusion on the household, most of it spent sitting in front of the telly ignoring one another. It was difficult to actually ignore each other, of course—Malfoy had a terrible habit of yelling at the screen, and Harry knew that he himself was a major distraction with his constant research—and they had somehow managed to strike up a tentative companionship. They didn’t like each other, God forbid, but they could get along well enough when they were forced to do so. Malfoy even deigned to help him sometimes, when it had become so late that shows had given way to infomercials and during shows for which neither of them really cared.

He was a help, as much as Harry was loathe to admit it. He often drew conclusions that Harry would not have drawn, and they were much appreciated. The sod even cooked dinner several nights a week, taking some of the spotlight off of Harry in Ginny’s eyes and spending time playing games with her. Things between Harry and Ginny had taken a poor turn since he and Malfoy had fallen asleep together on the couch three weeks before; she seemed to hate Harry for every little thing, even going so far as to break a glass at his feet when he’d tried to broach the subject.

He had given up trying to talk to her. He remembered something that Sirius had said to him in his fifth year. _Redheads are hot, Harry, in every sense of it. They get pissy and their fires burn hot, and you have to let them burn out on their own. Anything more and you’re just going to fan the flames._ As a result of this old advice, Harry hadn’t spoken to Ginny in four days.

Instead, he talked to Malfoy. It was never about anything of substance, but he was enjoying having some company that wasn’t on his case. He would have never guessed that he’d find that in Malfoy, but he had.

On the evenings when Harry couldn’t bear to work, they sat together on the couch and smoked cigarettes in secret, blowing smoke out the window and sharing bottles of cheap booze as they argued over cooking techniques. It was better than arguing about Quidditch—that had brought them to blows a week before, and Harry’s eye was still a little tender—especially since Draco couldn’t play anymore. Harry wanted to suggest that they go to the Burrow and play in the field out back in the middle of the night, when no one would catch wind of it, but he didn’t want to risk any of the Weasley siblings seeing them at it. The last thing Malfoy needed was to be on the losing side of a half-dozen redheads with wands.

It was becoming quickly obvious that he was going to have to take Malfoy somewhere, though, because the man was plagued with cabin fever. He was twitchy and had been drinking more heavily over the past week so he could sleep in late. He said that he was doing it because daytime television was something no one should have to endure, but Harry knew that he needed to get out of the flat for a night. Harry’s eyes flicked up to the clock—it was seven o’ clock—and then he looked over at Malfoy, who was staring at the television blankly, chin in hand. “All right, Malfoy, I’ve had enough.”

Grey eyes turned and fixed him with that stare instead, though Draco’s expression didn’t really change. “I don’t really like him all that much either, but apparently Michelin Stars—” Harry smacked him upside the head and smirked when the old fire leapt to life in Malfoy’s eyes. “What, _Potter_?”

“You’re going to need glasses if you keep staring at that damned thing all day. Get the fuck up, Malfoy, we’re not sitting around here tonight.”

“Merlin, don’t say shit like that.” Draco took up an accent pillow in self-defence, and he leaned back a bit. “Where are we going to go, then? The foyer?” He laughed, a half-crazed sound, and deftly dodged another incoming whack.

“No. Go take a shower, for fuck’s sake. I can’t stand the stink of you any longer, and you’re growing a beard. Shave and clean yourself up, and we’ll go for a pint or something. M. is staring me in the face and I can’t stand to look at these fucking files a minute more.”

Malfoy’s eyes lit up, and he was halfway to his feet before he paused and stared at Harry again. “How do you propose we get out of here without him or one of his cronies snatching me off the street? The supermarket is one thing, but a pub is quite another, yeah?”

Harry grinned at him roguishly. “We’ll have to go somewhere dark then, Malfoy. Go. Dress light.”

An hour later, Malfoy was standing next to the door, staring at it like a dog wanting to be let out of its crate. Harry was surprised that he wasn’t whinging. He gave him a once-over—the demand for Muggle clothes he’d called before getting into the shower had been heard, it seemed, and Malfoy hadn’t done a terrible job of dressing himself in them—before he nodded his head in approval. “That’ll do.” Button-downs and trousers worked well for any sort of place, and Harry thought that Malfoy might like to go to a party.

He shoved a wool cap over that signature blond hair, earning himself an indignant shriek, and he smiled before he let him out of the flat and followed him down the stairs and into the cool street. Spring was on its way, whispers of promised warmth in the air, and Harry sucked in a deep breath before he pulled his scarf a little tighter around his neck. “You ever been to a Muggle party, Malfoy?”

“Do I look like a heathen to you?”

Harry shrugged a shoulder. “You might. I figured it’d be a good way for you to work off that damned energy.” The hand in his pocket was on his wand as they walked together down the street, his eye on every shadow. They seemed safe enough for the moment, but he wasn’t going to let his guard down. “Who knows, Malfoy? Maybe you’ll get laid.”

“With a Muggle? Like hell I will.” His nose shot up in the air, and Harry laughed at him. The club he had in mind wasn’t far from the flat, nestled in an underground basement with a stage for bands; Harry had acquired tickets for himself and Ginny to see a group she’d been pestering him about for months, but she’d told him to fuck himself a few days before when he’d asked if she still wanted to go. “What is that?” Malfoy asked as they came close enough to feel the bass under their feet, and Harry just grinned at him before leading him into an alley. “You’re a creep, Potter.”

“Mm.” He knocked on a nondescript door and presented two tickets to the man who opened it. They were scrutinized before he made room for them to pass, and Harry grabbed Malfoy’s arm to lead him down the ominous staircase. “Now, listen. Here’s some Muggle money for the bar. Don’t take any pills or powders anyone else offers you, and do try to enjoy yourself.” The bass line was growing louder as they descended, and he paused before the door at the bottom of the stairwell. “All right?”

Malfoy was counting the money he was given, and he pocketed it before he looked down at Harry with a nod. “Fifteen meters?”

“Yeah, keep close. Here.” Harry looked around to make sure they were alone, then withdrew his wand and cast a silent spell; he felt magic wrap itself around his wrist. “That’ll let you know if you’re too far. We don’t want the Aurors coming to look for us.”

“Ugh.” Malfoy rubbed his wrist. “What happens if I do get too far?”

“You won’t.” Harry opened the heavy door, stashing his wand in the same movement, and he shoved Malfoy into the room. The club was lousy with people, the music absolutely deafening as the opening band played, and Harry pressed himself against Malfoy’s back to push him into the swarming crowd. He couldn’t hear a damned thing, though he could see the bar lit up on the far left side of the room, and he shoved Draco in that direction.

Progress towards the bar was slow but steady, and they made it by the end of the first song. Malfoy was already winded, and he leaned up against the bar, eyes wide. He mouthed something at Harry that he couldn’t understand, and Harry laughed before he signalled the bartender and ordered ‘whatever he liked best’. They were presented with two violently blue drinks, and Harry paid before he knocked his glass against Draco’s and grabbed him to lead him back into the crowd.

 

 

Draco had never been anywhere like this. The feeling of thumping under his feet outside was something alien to him, and he was having his doubts when the doorman appeared to be half-giant and incapable of words. Harry’s warnings in the stairwell hadn’t made him feel any better about this, and his stomach was a knot of nerves until the door was opened.

Then, they were in a sea of people, and Draco wanted to _dance_. He wasn’t given the luxury, though; Potter wanted to drink, and he let himself be corralled towards the bar to order their drinks. What they received was a very peculiar colour, but Potter began downing his right away, so Draco followed suit and let himself be pulled back into the crowd.

Muggle clubs were hot and close and sticky with who knew what, but he knew immediately that he liked them. He found himself pressed on all sides, and he made a spot for himself and Potter as close to the stage as they could manage to get. There was nothing to be done about the fact that Potter was pressed close, no more than there was anything to be done about the others, and he drank his cocktail as though he’d been dying of thirst.

He saw a flash of Potter’s wand, and his drink was full again. He started to bring it to his lips, and Potter pulled out a small baggie of white powder, pouring a bit into both their drinks. “Drink up, Malfoy!” he heard, screamed near his ear, and he shrugged his shoulders before he tipped it back.

The bands changed. He was screaming with the crowd, an arm flung around Potter’s shoulders, and the headlining band made their introductions before the music began.

Draco wasn’t really sure what happened next.

He knew that his drink never seemed to be empty even though he was drinking it constantly. He knew that the band was _amazing_ , that he could very nearly see the music hanging in the air. He knew that he had never danced so frantically, with Potter, with any Muggle who looked at him. He wanted to _touch_ everything, wanted to smell and caress and fight and fuck and scream. Potter had the same wild look in his eyes, a look of absolute madness, and he looked around before he snatched two Muggle girls seemingly out of thin air.

Draco thought they were all beautiful, all three of them, and they danced together. He didn’t know whose hands were whose, whose hair smelled like shampoo and whose smelled like vomit, who tasted like citrus and who tasted like toothpaste. The music pounded through him, the lights scanning the crowd looked like prisms, and he couldn’t bear the heat of the place. Someone’s fingers were on the buttons of his shirt and ripping it off him; he realised with foggy understanding that he was the only one of their group who’d still been wearing one. The Muggle in front of him had amazing tits, and he spilled some of his drink over them before leaning in and dragging his tongue over her chest. Her hands were in his hair, and he cast an inebriated look over to Potter, who was throat-fucking his girl with his tongue. He fisted a hand in Potter’s hair as green light shone over the crowd, holding onto his only anchor there, and he felt Potter’s hand on his back.

 _I’m here_ , it said. Draco didn’t let go.

The crowd shifted, moved him, and he realised the moment before he meant to give his Muggle a sizeable love bite that she was being lifted out of his hands. The crowd took her in hand, shoving her over their heads, and he fell in with Potter and his girl; she was blond and angled, with heavy, pale breasts and eyes that he’d guess were blue if they weren’t squeezed shut. He slipped around behind her and pressed his hips up against hers, the hand that wasn’t fisted in Potter’s hair roaming over her. She was slicked with sweat and her neck tasted like salt, and he was hard against the small of her back. He ground up against her and moaned in her ear, and Potter’s hand was in his hair; the girl between them couldn’t figure out where to put her hands it seemed, couldn’t choose, and Draco wanted to fuck her right there.

He opened his eyes and gave Potter a fiery look over her shoulder, and they grinned at each other; they could have her if they wanted, that much was obvious as she shoved her hands between their thighs. He pulled Potter close and leaned over her shoulder to shout in his ear, to suggest they do just that—

_Wham!_

 

 

As they pushed their way into the crowd and found the place they’d stay, Harry searched in his robes for the molly he’d got off one of the other Aurors for the party. Muggle recreational drugs had their place, he knew, and he and Ginny had always enjoyed indulging in MDMA together when they went to concerts in places like these. They were too stifling and terrifying otherwise; the powder helped them become one with the crowd, even though it had nearly got them into trouble before when the police had raided the concert they were attending.

Harry suspected Malfoy had never had such a thing, so he was a little generous as he tapped the powder into the man’s drink. He gave himself an equal share and stashed the rest for the company they were sure to attract; soon enough, they were dancing together and Harry had his arm around Malfoy. It was as though they had never been anything but the closest of friends, and Malfoy smelled _damned good_ after his shower.

He kept their drinks filled as long as he could manage to get the spell out, then gave up on it and let his glass shatter on the ground soon after he heard Malfoy’s do the same. He moved with him, his drug-addled brain driving his hands, and he saw dimly that he had his arms around Malfoy’s neck and he needed to stop doing that. Malfoy clearly didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know that his hands were under Harry’s shirt and that he was breathing right against his ear, louder than the music.

He pulled back and met Malfoy’s eyes; there was something crazy in them, trouble, and he looked wildly around them before he grabbed the girls who had been dancing nearby. They were only too happy to join once he flashed his molly, and Harry’s hands could go somewhere new. Ginny was the last thing on his mind.

The girls snorted his powder and the four of them fell into rhythm together; Harry closed his eyes and just _felt_ instead of thinking, never knowing who he had his hands or his mouth on. When he’d spent a long time grinding against someone, he opened his eyes and realised it was the blonde girl, and he turned her in his arms so he could kiss her perfect mouth. He felt a hand tight in his hair, too large to be hers, and he reached out to touch Malfoy, to keep him close and keep him from panicking.

_It’s all right._

The hand in his hair felt good, and the girl in his arms was wonderful; something must have happened to the girl Malfoy had, because he was pressing the blonde between them and Harry couldn’t help but touch him no more than he could help touching anyone else who dared get close enough to them. He found Malfoy’s hair and held onto it, realising dimly as he bit his way down the woman’s chest that not a single one of them was wearing a shirt anymore.

A hand pushed between his legs and squeezed his cock, and he looked up to see Malfoy giving him a look over the girl’s shoulder. _Let’s go fuck her_ the look said, plain as day, and Harry was pulled in close the moment before something shoved the three of them sideways harshly.

He jerked out of his reverie and grabbed for Malfoy, the girl forgotten as he tried to get him out of the line of fire. His mind panicked briefly as he thought that it must be someone after them, that they needed to get out of there; Malfoy was rubbing the side of his head with one hand and clutching back. A fight had broken out nearby, inciting the crowd, and Harry started to pull Malfoy further back into the bystanders’ circle, but that was a no-go. The damned Slytherin flung himself forward to be a part of the fray, and Harry couldn’t help but follow along.

Harry didn’t even know whom he was fighting, throwing punches and feeling them land on himself. He pulled hair, yelled, and he felt someone’s nose break under his knuckles; Malfoy’s chest was splattered with blood and he was biting someone’s arm. He always had been a dirty fighter, and Harry realised as he ripped a handful of hair out of someone’s head that he was no better himself.

There was a shriek of warning, and Harry grabbed Malfoy by the shoulders, jerking him out of the way of a jaw-crushing blow and melting back into the crowd with him a moment before the bouncers came in to break up the fight. Malfoy was laughing wildly in his ear; it was infectious, and Harry danced with him until he was so winded that he thought he’d collapse. There was a brief intermission, and Harry dragged Malfoy out of the crowd, to the wall. He put his back to it and slid down, panting and grinning and reaching into his trousers not for his wand, but for the cigarette case that held a number of cigarettes and a single spliff. He plucked it out and lit it, taking a deep drag and holding the smoke in his lungs before he offered it to Draco.

Draco took a regular cigarette instead and leaned his head against Harry’s shoulder, watching the crowd fight for the bar during intermission and trying to catch his breath. “I lost my drink.” Harry’s ears were ringing in the brief quiet, but he heard Malfoy and laughed breathlessly.

“I saw that, I think. Are you tired? We can go home.”

“Fuck off, Potter. I’m actually having a good time.”

When the band took the stage again, they leapt to their feet and melted back into the crowd, but they didn’t seek Muggles out this time. They just danced together, hands in the air and voices hoarse from screaming. When the band called it a night, they grabbed their last drinks from the bar, downed them, and then got out of the club as quickly as they could manage to head home.

The air was much colder than it had been when they’d arrived, made worse by the fact that they’d lost their shirts and scarves in the party. Malfoy was easily distracted by lights, sometimes stopping in place to stare at them with his head cocked, and the sheer amount of singing he was doing would have put Harry off his food at any other time. They were lucky the venue had been so close, as they both tripped constantly over their own feet, and they stumbled up the stairs to the flat. Harry started fumbling with the keys.

Malfoy was giggling and leaning against the door frame, shoving at Harry’s shoulder and making it more difficult. “Oh, Mister Potter, if I’d known we were coming back to yours, I’d have worn matching pants,” he said in a mash up of accents, and he sputter out a laugh as Harry dropped his keys.

“Shut up!” Harry smirked at him and elbowed him lightly in the stomach on his way down, snatching his keys and managing to get the door open. They stumbled in together, both freezing at the sight of Ginny sitting on the couch with a dozen roses sitting in front of her on the table. “…Gin?”

Ginny got off the couch and took the roses in hand, going over to Harry and pausing for a moment. She looked between the two of them, taking in the sight of Malfoy splattered in blood and something blue, before she pushed the roses into Harry’s hands. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said quietly, and she gave him a hopeful smile. “Can we stop fighting?”

“Fucking finally.” Draco pushed past them, heading for the kitchen.

Harry stared down at her, and he bit his lip before he smiled. “I’m sorry, too, Gin,” he whispered quietly, and he pulled her close with a hand. She started to lean her head in, then paused and stared at his neck.

“You have a hickey.”

“Wh-what?” Harry’s eyes widened, and he started to scramble for a mirror before her hands stopped him, and she gave him a stern look. He opened his mouth to explain, but her hands delved into his pockets, coming up with the remnants of the MDMA. She smiled knowingly.

“At least you saved me some.” She dragged him to the bedroom and shut the door. “Now you’re going to make it up to me, for not taking me, too.”

 

 

Ginny was lying next to Harry, staring up at the ceiling and chewing on her bottom lip. He was staring at her, blinking in some confusion. She had been absolutely wild in bed that night, and even with the MDMA in her system, he wondered what exactly had spurred it on. It was difficult to ask, and so he just stared at her, appreciating the curl of her red hair against the pillow and holding her hand beneath the sheets.

She didn’t make him wait for very long before she turned her face towards him and met his gaze, her expression blank. “Harry,” she said softly, “this isn’t working, is it?”

Harry opened his mouth before he promptly shut it again; he didn’t have to ask what she meant. He knew exactly what she was talking about, and he didn’t really have to think about his answer. “No, Gin, it’s not. I’m _trying_ , honestly, I am, but I just—”

“I know,” she said quietly, and she rolled onto her side to face him, holding his hand between both of hers. He felt his fingertips move over his knuckles as though she meant to memorize them. She looked sad, then, and Harry wanted to reach out to her and pull her close, to tell her that it would be all right. “I just don’t know what to do, Harry. I didn’t think that this would be so hard. It’s not what I thought it was going to be, you know?”

Harry sighed and rolled to face her properly, lifting her hands and kissing the back of one. “It’s hard as hell,” he said, staring at her fingernails. “And it isn’t fair. Ginny, I love you, I really do, but I just don’t know how we’re going to make this work when we’re at each other’s throats all the time. The honeymoon period is supposed to last longer than this, I thought. We fight over shit that doesn’t even matter. I have no idea what to do about it. I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t ever want to fight with you.”

He looked at her then, the girl he had known since she was eleven. She had been so small then, and so scared. He thought about the look on her face the moment before they kissed for the first time, all fierce determination, and he thought about how much he had missed her when he’d been on the run. Had that been what did it? They had spent so much time thinking about what could be between them that when they got it, they didn’t live up to one another’s expectations? It all seemed so uninspired now; every little thing about their relationship seemed doomed to fail them.

“I don’t want to fight with you, either,” she admitted, looking up to his eyes then. “I don’t know why I get so angry. I don’t know why you get so angry, and I know that you don’t either. We just…” She hesitated for a few moments before she gathered the words to say. “We spent so much time apart, Harry, and I had all these ideas about what we were going to do when you came back. Then you did, and we didn’t do any of them.” She paused and smirked. “Well, we did some of it. But this wasn’t what I was expecting, and I don’t think it’s what you were expecting either.”

Harry nodded his head in agreement, his head surprisingly cool for the conversation they were having. “No, it’s not. What are we supposed to do about it now, though? I can’t live like this, Gin. I really can’t. I love you more than anything in the whole world, but I can’t live with us constantly fighting like this. It’s too much.”

Ginny pulled her hands from his and moved forward on the bed, curling up against his chest. “I think that we should agree to give it one more go. I mean one really, really good try. If it doesn’t work…then we shouldn’t do this to ourselves any longer.” Her voice cracked as she spoke the words, and she sucked in a deep breath. “At least we can say that we tried our best, if it doesn’t work out.”

Harry swallowed hard, his brow creased, and he wrapped his arms around her. He didn’t like thinking about letting go of Ginny, even if it was contingent on their real try failing miserably. He wasn’t particularly optimistic, not with his workload and the added stress of Malfoy living with them, but he wanted it to work. He wanted to be able to love her as she deserved, and he thought that he might be able to skive off some of his work to get it right.

He had to get it right.

“One good try,” he whispered against her ear, shutting his eyes. “I swear, I’ll try harder than I’ve ever tried for anything.”

Ginny looked up at him and smiled. “We’re agreed?”

“Absolutely.”

 

*

The next morning found Draco lying in his bedroom, too comfortable to get out of bed but too awake to sleep. It was easy to stay in bed when he felt mildly awful, the comedown from his drug use the night before manifesting as an upset stomach and a light headache; he considered getting out of bed to see to a Pepper-Up potion, but decided against it. He didn’t fancy having steam pouring from his ears for the next hour.

There was a sudden tap at the window, and he groaned into his pillow before he looked over, seeing an unrecognisable owl perched on the sill. With a great deal more energy than he’d have liked to expend, he hefted himself out of bed and opened the window, glaring at the bird. “Prat,” he muttered, taking the letter tied to its leg and offering it brief sanctum in the house. It took the offer, fluttering inside and perching atop a bedpost. “There are treats on the desk.”

The scrawl over the outside of the letter caught his interest—it was very clearly Pansy Parkinson’s handwriting. Potter had told him that Pansy was missing from Wales, and he’d been going spare over it when he was reminded of it; he knew that Blaise was trouble for her, and even though he loved them both, he didn’t trust either with the other’s well-being. Sitting down on the bed, he unsealed the letter and squinted at it in the light from the window.

_Dear Draco,_

_How are you doing? Are you holding up well? I hope that you’ve not been worried about me, darling; I’m just fine. I gave Blaise the slip in Wales when he pissed me off beyond anything you can imagine. I think I’m about done with him, to be honest!_

_I didn’t mean to start a damned search. Serves the Ministry right, I suppose, for keeping you away from the Manor. I dropped in on the way home from our holiday and you weren’t even there to console me. How dreadful of you, Draco! Where are you holed up, anyway?_

_I heard about what’s going on, and I would take the piss out of you for being labelled a magical creature if it didn’t seem so serious. First you’re the rumoured heir of Slytherin, now you’re some precious creature. What a joke. Newt Scamander should be sued for libel; have you considered that? You could make some significant Galleons off it if you won the lawsuit. Then again, the Ministry is convinced that you and I and the rest of Slytherin are out starting the New Death Eaters’ Society, so you might not get much traction._

_I would write a strongly-worded letter, if I were you. It would serve him right for subjecting us to Care of Magical Creatures for so long._

_You should write back. I’m dreadfully bored and I miss you. We haven’t spent nearly enough time together since I got off probation. Did I tell you that I’m thinking of doing my NEWTs? You should help me with it and do yours, too. We may as well have some qualifications, since we’re going to be subjected to the Ministry for the rest of our lives regardless of what we do. We can study together._

_I’d better get going, it’s nearly dinnertime. Write me back, damn you._

_Love,_

_Pansy_

Draco sighed softly and ran his hands over the black ink, smiling faintly as he thought about his friend. He had always loved Pansy very dearly, though it had never been a romantic sort of affection. She was the sister he’d never had, and she’d agreed to the same on her end. He’d have killed for Pansy, who always listened to him even when no one else seemed convinced that he was on the right path. Granted, he hadn’t been on the right path, but everyone needed some encouragement.

He had been afraid in his earlier years at Hogwarts that he would be expected to marry her, but his parents had quickly relieved him of that fear. He was expected to marry into an older Pureblood family, though the contracts had never gone through, and so he was unpromised. The war had become serious, and suddenly that sort of thing didn’t seem important any longer. He didn’t think it had been important in the first place.

Pansy wasn’t his oldest friend, but he thought that she might well be his truest. She was always there to offer a shoulder, even now as he was confined to Potter’s flat and she couldn’t come. He knew that she couldn’t come, knew that Potter would go off his rocker and Weasley would break every piece of glassware they owned. Pansy wasn’t exactly thought of highly around there, he knew, and he supposed that he didn’t blame them. Gryffindors always had it out for Slytherins, even after all this time.

A sudden paranoia struck him, and he drew his wand, casting revealing spells over the parchment. There was no invisible ink, no trace of magic, and he breathed a sigh of relief before he thought that he should probably write back. The last thing he wanted was for her to knock down every door in England looking for him.

Draco stood up and stretched like a cat, feeling his vertebrae pop and sighing at the simple pleasure. His head ached, and he shrugged into a shirt before he left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen to see about a potion; he blinked at the sight that greeted him.

Potter and Weasley were sitting at the table, leaning shoulder to shoulder and laughing to themselves. There wasn’t any hint that they’d been fighting, any sign of hostility, and Draco sighed his relief audibly, drawing their eyes. It was going to be a good day. “I hope you saved breakfast for me,” he said matter-of-factly, and he smirked when Ginny gestured to the microwave; he was greeted with bacon and eggs. “Weaselette, you’re a saint. I would kiss you but I don’t want to catch a freckle.” He took his plate in hand and sat down at the table across from them.

“God forbid,” Ginny said with a smile, and she gave Draco a once-over. “You look like shit, Malfoy; more than usual, I mean. You want something?”

“Your drug-addled boyfriend is a terrible influence and my system isn’t used to such law-skirting. I’m on the up-and-up, Weasley. I could use something for my head, if you don’t mind.” He narrowed his eyes at Potter. “I don’t know what you fed me, but it’s on your head. I’m going to do something unspeakable to your liquor cabinet. You’re going to have nightmares, Potter.” He plucked a piece of bacon from the plate and promptly devoured it.

While Ginny got up to get Draco a potion, he was rewarded with a glare from his host. “You leave the cabinet alone. You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself last night, in any case. I was worried we’d have some illegitimate Malfoys running around, and I was nearly struck dead at the thought.”

Draco leaned back to take the potion from Ginny’s hand and he smiled genuinely at her before he chugged it, thankful that it wasn’t Pepper-Up. It tasted dreadful, naturally, and he chased it with a mouthful of eggs. “Ugh. Who brews these? Let me set up a cauldron here and I’ll brew something palatable, at least.”

“Like we’re going to trust anything you brew, Malfoy,” Ginny said, though she didn’t seem serious. “You’d lace everything with dung.”

“Stop foiling my plans.” Draco realised with a strange sort of jolt in his stomach that the conversation was dangerously close to friendly—at least, it was friendly for them—and he focused on eating his food. Pansy would be disgusted by him; he was making nice with Gryffindors, especially Gryffindors that included a Weasley and a Potter. How awful. Still, they were kinder than they had any reason to be, and he couldn’t begrudge them that; he was glad that he was in good hands. They were even getting along for once, and that set his shoulders at ease.

He didn’t like confrontations in which he wasn’t an active participant. That spoiled all the fun and made him nervous.

“What are your plans for the day, Malfoy?” Ginny asked, and he looked up in surprise. They hadn’t ever asked him what he wanted to do with his day. “I’ve got practice most of the day, but Harry’s going to be buried in work as usual, I expect.” He watched Potter lean over and kiss her cheek; how disgusting.

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment, his tone suspicious. “I’ll probably spend it watching the telly and feeling sorry for myself, to be honest. I got a letter this morning from Pansy, so I’m going to write her back.” Potter’s fork clattered to his plate and Draco jumped in surprise, shooting him a glare afterwards. “Merlin, get a grip.”

“Parkinson wrote to you?” Potter was leaning forward and staring at him, looking more than a little alarmed. “The Ministry has been looking all over for her, Malfoy; did she say where she is? Is she in any dang—did you check the letter for spells? Are you sure it’s her handwriting?”

Draco waved off the questions. “She’s around. I checked it, put your knickers back on, and I’m sure it’s hers. She said Blaise pissed her off so she left him in Wales. I don’t blame her, really; he’s a bit of a prat.”

Potter stared at him for a moment before he frowned. “Can I see it?” he asked quietly.

“Fuck, no you can’t see it. That’s my private post.” Draco scowled at him over the plate. “I don’t want you controlling every single part of my life, Potter, or any part of it really. You can at least let me have this.”

He netted an eye roll for that. “I won’t read it, Malfoy. I just want to check it over myself. We don’t want people knowing that you’re holed up here. That’ll be a press disaster.”

Draco heaved a sigh, but reasoned that Potter probably knew more about tracking spells and the like than he did. “Fine. It’s on my bed. Don’t you dare read it, Potter.”

He was left alone in the kitchen with Ginny, who pursed her lips and hesitated for a moment before she sipped her juice. “Do you miss your friends, Malfoy?” she asked. He looked up at her as though she’d grown a third head.

“Of course I miss my friends; what sort of question is that? I’ve missed them for years, but you know how it is. You and Potter don’t spend all that much time with Granger and Weasley. Everybody parts ways after school, and most of my friends are either in prison or working off probation. That’s not the sort of thing that you can just overcome by nipping over for tea.” He shook his head. “I’m used to it at this point, honestly. Malfoys don’t have friends, we have contacts. It’s best not to get too close to people, or shit happens like suddenly the Dark Lord is kipping in your master bedroom and you’re out on the couch.” Ginny laughed at that, and Draco felt his cheeks colour inexplicably. “It’s really not all that funny.”

“No, no, Draco, it isn’t,” she said apologetically, still smiling. Draco wanted to smack her. “It’s not funny at all, I’m sorry. It doesn’t have to be like that, you know. You can spend more time with your friends, you just have to make an effort. Well, I mean…” She waved her fork in the air. “Once this is all over, anyway. Harry’s going to find M. any day now and you can go home and spend time with your poncy friends. You might even come over here for tea once in a while.” She smiled as a look of utter revulsion crossed Draco’s face. “Oh, don’t look like that. You’re not half-bad company when you’ve got over yourself.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t like you, Weasley.”

“I think you might a little bit. It’s Ginny, Draco. Don’t you think that we’ve gone long enough with this surname thing? Time to let it go?” She took a bite of her last piece of bacon, smiling and utterly infuriating all the while.

“One thing at a time, Weasley. You can’t invite me for regular tea and tell me to call you by your first name all at once. I need time to process it. It’s hard enough that we’re at a truce.” He rolled his eyes again, sure they were going to roll out of his head by the time this conversation was through. “How about this, then? I get out of this damned place, and I’ll come to one of your games. I’ll cheer for the other team, but I’ll be there. You won’t fail to notice me in the stands, I’m certain. I’ll make a new set of Weasley is our King buttons just for you, and I won’t change the gender.”

“I’m so charmed, Draco,” Ginny snorted, and she looked up expectantly as Harry came back in the room; Draco’s eyes were drawn as well. “Well?” she asked.

Potter shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing,” he said matter-of-factly. “Seems safe enough to me, Malfoy. Go for it, but be sure you check every one, will you?”

Draco nodded his head and quickly finished his breakfast, the ache in his head already easing. He put his plate in the sink and gave the couple a hard, unfriendly glower before he went back to his bedroom, setting up at the desk for writing a letter in return to Pansy.

_Dear Pansy,_

_You have no idea how happy I am to hear from you. I’ve been going spare over this whole mess, and I’m absolutely furious with you for not writing me sooner. I do, however, applaud your success at whipping the Ministry into a frenzy. I couldn’t have done better myself if I weren’t in my current position—they’re damned worried about me. It’s cute, really. I get my own Aurors, did you see the papers?_

_Can you believe they put Weasley on my fucking detail? What a disaster that was. He and Williamson were both completely useless; M. kept getting into the Manor and taking truly dreadful candid shots of me. While I am absolutely perfect at all times, I think that M. could use a class in photography. I have a much better side than all that. I should make a press release._

_I wish I could tell you where I was; suffice to say that I’m safe for now, I think, though the company would have you gagging. I can’t tell you who, either, but after this is all over, I will tell you and you will need to rub my head because I have the grandest headache from all of this._

_I don’t think it’s nearly as funny as you do that I’m labelled a magical creature now. Magical, sure—in all respects—but a creature? I really should write a letter to Scamander and give him a piece of my mind about this whole endangering my life thing. It’s shit, Pan. I’m miserable, honestly._

_Luckily, I can keep myself distracted well enough. I’ve had enough wine to kill my mother since I’ve holed up in this place, believe it or not, and it’s not even good wine. At this point, I’ll drink anything I can get my hands on to forget about how shit this whole situation is. I just want to go home to the Manor._

_I really miss you. I’m being overly sentimental, perhaps, but it’s easy to be morose when I’m stuck here. My hosts aren’t the most entertaining people, though I will tell you that I was highly entertained last night. We went to a Muggle concert (believe it, I hardly do) in some tiny underground room and my drink was drugged. My pupils are still dilated. It was a good bit of frivolity and general illegality, and I burned off some steam. I feel a lot better despite the headache._

_I’ve been cooped up in this place and I swear, I’ll go mad by the time this is over. You’ll have to commit me or hire a nurse for me, because I will be absolutely mental. It’s a wonder I can remember how to write. I suppose my hand is strong from the constant wine glass in my fingers._

_I’d do anything to have a fly again. I haven’t thought about my NEWTs, but once this is over, I will do them with you if you are still at it. I am hoping that this will be over as soon as possible, preferably within the next hour, but I don’t have my hopes up. The whole thing is a dead end. I’m fucked, Pansy, just absolutely fucked._

_Please, write me back. I’m so bored that I could kill myself._

_Love,_

_Draco_

The owl who delivered the letter was still perched nearby, and he sealed the letter before tying it to the creature’s leg. “Back to where you came from,” he said with a smile, and he offered an owl treat. “Thank you.” The owl hooted at him and took the treat before taking off again through the window.

Draco was seized with loneliness then, and he flopped back down onto the bed, rubbing his stomach and staring at the ceiling. He really did miss his friends, more than he could admit to anyone. The question was—could he stomach being friends with Potter and Ginny? Could he put aside years of malice between the three of them and try to find some harmony in their forced situation?

He rolled onto his belly and rubbed his hands together, staring down at his fingers. They weren’t really all that dreadful, he thought, not really. Ginny was nice enough to him, nicer than anyone he knew would have been given the circumstances, and she liked his cooking. When she and Potter weren’t fighting, she liked to watch Food Network with him and comment with him on how something looked particularly tasty, and she’d pick up supplies from the market so they could cook things that they had seen. They never turned out quite as lovely as they did on television, and sometimes the food was absolutely dreadful, but they had laughed together over it and eaten every bit of their creations. He supposed that it would be easy to be friends with Ginny Weasley, if he put his mind to it.

Potter was another matter entirely. There was a history there that he didn’t quite share with Ginny, a history of insults, hexes, and thrown punches. Once upon a time, he would have given anything to be friends with Harry Potter because his father had advised that he do so, but that idea had been struck down the very first day of school. He thought that he remembered seeing him before that day, but he wasn’t sure if that had really been Potter in Madam Malkin’s; if it had been, they seemed to have got on well enough. That was before prejudices had been formed.

Potter had saved his life, in the Room Where Things Are Hidden, and he had clung to his back, fingers clutching at handfuls of his robes and his face buried between sharp shoulder blades. Potter had put an arm back around him to make sure he stayed on as they wound through burning stacks of priceless artefacts and garbage, Fiendfyre licking at their feet, and Draco had been comforted by it. It was a grand joke that he, having always made fun of him, was being saved by none other than Saint Potter; it was even more ridiculous that it was happening again. Why did he even bother? Shouldn’t he have left Draco to die there in the Room, consumed by magical flame and powerless to stop it? Shouldn’t he have left Draco to M.’s devices now, instead of caring for him in nothing less than his own home?

He told himself that it was all Potter’s overblown saviour complex, but he didn’t really believe it. The man was just…damned decent, and that was hard for Draco to swallow. He didn’t get to be decent. He needed to be a completely intolerable arsehole, needed to be hateful and horrible, but he wasn’t any of those things.

If he was being honest with himself, Draco felt a little bit of comradery with Potter. Draco was being hunted by a madman and forced into a place he most certainly didn’t want to be, and Potter seemed to feel hunted in a different way. One didn’t have to be a Seer to realise that things weren’t going to last for much longer between Ginny and Harry, and Draco was subjected to it every day. They had seemed to be happier that morning, but he didn’t have any hope that it would last for more than a day. They were not well-suited to one another.

Draco didn’t think, by any stretch of the imagination, that he was qualified to make such assessments, but they expected too much of one another. Potter wanted Ginny to support him no matter what he was doing, even if it was ignoring her; Ginny seemed to want Harry’s constant attention and wasn’t above acting out to get it. How childish of them, he thought, but he thought that maybe he understood. He hadn’t had any romantic dalliances before the war had overtaken everything, and a manor containing the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters was a terrible place to bring a date. He didn’t know what it meant to love someone, not beyond what books suggested, and that suited him just fine. He didn’t really want to bother. There was always something coming out of nowhere to blindside him, and no one needed to be subjected to his drama regardless of who started it.

He thought that maybe Potter and Weasley didn’t really understand what it meant to love someone, either, because love shouldn’t look like that. It wasn’t really his business, so he never commented on it, but he thought that maybe one night, when he and Potter were both thoroughly hammered, that he ought to ask him again if everything was all right.

Traitorous thoughts such as those were more trouble than they were worth. He could not convince himself that he really cared. He just liked the company. Weeks spent watching television and drinking Potter’s vault dry were much better when he had someone nearby, he supposed. It would have been dreadfully lonely otherwise, and sometimes Potter surprised him and did things like take him to a Muggle underground concert so he could slip him something to make him feel like the world really wasn’t all that hideous.

He supposed that he could be friends with Potter, after everything they had endured from one another, if the other man was willing to give it a go. They didn’t argue half as much as they should have been doing; in fact, they hadn’t really argued at all in several weeks. It wasn’t half-bad. He’d even woken up one morning with Potter half-lying against him, head on his shoulder, and he hadn’t been immediately repulsed. He hadn’t even shoved him off; he’d pretended to sleep until Ginny made a scene about leaving and woke Potter up.

It had to be Stockholm Syndrome. He was stuck in this flat with Potter every single day, never really _didn’t_ see him, and he was starting to like him. He liked that he was well on his way to becoming a raging alcoholic, that he dressed like a tramp when he didn’t have to go into work, and that his morality didn’t extend to illicit substances on special occasions. He liked the way he drank from the liquor bottle and bitched about Shacklebolt under his breath. He liked the way he danced, even though he was certain that it was terrible, with an arm around Draco’s neck and his body pressing entirely too close for them to have been okay with it had they been sober. They hadn’t been, though, so Draco had liked having someone he knew so close to him and, in that moment, so carefree despite everything that was happening.

He liked how Harry’s shirt felt against the backs of his hands, when he’d forgotten with whom he was dancing and had craved the feeling of skin against his palms.

Draco groaned and buried his face in the pillow, gripping the back of his head. That wasn’t something he ever wanted to think about again, not in a thousand years. Still, he supposed that he could try in the name of harmony in the flat, to be friends with Potter. Ginny was going to be easy enough to like, so he could focus his efforts on her boyfriend. Then, as soon as this whole thing was over, he fully intended on never speaking to either of them again.

He had appearances to maintain; he was, after all, the _last_ Pureblood in Europe.

 

*

The next week was one of the happiest of Harry’s memory since the death of Voldemort.

The best thing about the week was that he and Ginny were getting on better than they had in years. He was starting to remember why he fell in love with her, starting to remember the things that had drawn him in in the first place. She was strong and funny and seemed to know just what to say sometimes, when the research was going poorly or when he didn’t quite want to get out of bed in the morning. When she came home from training, she smelled like the things he associated with Quidditch—grass, fresh air, and sweat—and he had never been more attracted to her.

That did not, of course, mean that they never fought that week. They did, but the fights were different than the ones they typically engaged in—they argued and grumbled at one another, but then it was over—and he found that they didn’t lessen his adoration for her at all. Indeed, they seemed to have the opposite effect in that he couldn’t keep his hands off of her afterward. He supposed they must be driving Draco insane.

Draco. He’d started calling him that just three days before, when Draco had called him Harry for the first time over dinner. It hadn’t been anything significant; he’d been asking him to pass the potatoes over dinner, and Harry had complied and looked at Malfoy in a whole different light from that moment on.

They all lived together, and maybe Draco was his friend.

The usual definition of friendship didn’t seem to encompass exactly what was going on between them. They didn’t seem to like each other much at all, but Harry found Draco to be a constant companion in the hardest case he had ever seen, and it wasn’t _awful_. It was actually rather pleasant sometimes, when he knew that he needed to take a break and he didn’t get any shit for flopping onto the couch next to him. They broke bread together, they drank themselves stupid together, and sometimes they passed out together in a heap on the couch. They even talked a little about subjects deeper than Rachael Ray.

Harry found out that Draco still sometimes had nightmares that Voldemort was in the flat and just living there with them just as he had in Malfoy Manor, and he learned that Draco wasn’t sure what he wanted to be when this was all over, but that he was considering a career as a Healer or an Unspeakable. He suspected that Draco felt guilty over everything that had happened just before the war was in full swing, that he regretted hurting people, and that he was seeking some way to atone for it. He agreed that becoming a Healer was a good choice, and he knew that there had been so few applicants to the position at St. Mungo’s in the past few years that they might just take on a former Death Eater even if he still had the Dark Mark on his forearm.

He’d asked if Draco had a girlfriend when they were well and truly drunk one night, and Draco had laughed himself silly, citing that there weren’t all that many women who were interested in Death Eaters even if they were heirs to great fortunes. Harry supposed that money really couldn’t buy everything in life, not even that enormous amount of money. He didn’t dare ask about the estate or how Lucius and Narcissa had left it upon their deaths; the subject seemed taboo, and he figured that he would let Draco bring it up first.

He found that he looked forward to working when he knew he’d have someone nearby to encourage him to take breaks without being too insistent about it, as Ginny often was. Draco kept an eye on the time and would occasionally suggest that he take a few minutes, set the work down and clear his mind so he could think properly again. They smoked cigarettes together sometimes when he took those breaks. It was comfortable and companionable.

The night they had spent at the concert was never too far from Harry’s mind for a number of reasons. First, he knew that he and Ginny would never be in the place they were then if he hadn’t gone and kissed that Muggle girl. Second, he was having rather odd dreams about the whole evening, and they refused to be banished until he was thinking about what had happened.

He probably shouldn’t have drugged Draco or himself, but work had been so stressful that he’d wanted to unwind. The Auror Office would probably have his head if they’d known what he was up to, both for the MDMA and for the fact that he’d taken Malfoy to such a crowded area without more security; he found that he didn’t really care all that much. If he couldn’t take Draco out of the flat every once in a while, they were both going to go insane. Besides, he’d enjoyed the evening, maybe a little more than he should have, in retrospect. He’d danced like he hadn’t in years, had felt close to Malfoy in ways he most certainly shouldn’t have, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Before the intermission, everything had been fine, really; he had been sure at one point that he and Draco were going to double-team the lucky girl caught between them, but they hadn’t and they’d relaxed and had another drink before they went back into the fray as the band came back to the stage. Things were weird, then. He’d had too much molly, and his head was swimming and everything was very beautiful, including Draco. Maybe especially Draco.

Now, he dreamt about Draco dancing in the crowd nearly every night. It wasn’t particularly sexual, the sight of Draco moving with the music, illuminated by the lights moving constantly overhead, but it was evocative nonetheless. Some nights, he recognised distantly that Draco was dancing with himself, that he was watching them jump and laugh and scream and pump their fists in the air when they weren’t busy just holding onto one another. Sometimes Draco gave him a look like he was going to devour him. Had that been what they looked like, when it was happening? If it had, what the hell did that mean?

It was hard to imagine Draco that way when he was such a layabout in the flat, so Harry managed to push it from his mind when they were together. There was no pulsing music, no brightly-coloured drinks or Muggles swarming around them; there was only Draco, Harry, and the endless drone of the television. Sometimes Ginny was there, leaning against Harry’s side and poring through a book on Irish history, a map in hand. She was convinced that M. was located in Scotland, and she was looking for hints in the clues that might suggest where to start looking; Harry, on the other hand, thought that M. was indeed in Ireland as previously thought, and he was doing the same accordingly.

Draco sat with them when they studied together, though he was looking for clues in the photographs that had been snapped of him in the Manor. Each one was labelled with a number on the back, presumably the order in which they were taken, but Draco had said that he wanted to see if they meant something else. He had a list of notes that didn’t make sense to either Harry or Ginny, but he said that he was onto something. “This sort of thing is a numbers game, Harry,” he’d said the night before, a sugar quill in his mouth. “It’s all about how many creatures you can get, how many hours until you get what you want, that sort of thing. It’s a numbers game. We’ll find our answers here.” He’d rapped his sugar quill against the parchment of nonsensical notes and gone back to it.

There were other times when Harry didn’t think that Draco was all that interested in solving the case and getting free. He thought that maybe he liked sitting in front of the television without any responsibilities, cut off from those who might be a bad influence when he was very obviously trying to turn his life around. He didn’t suppose that he blamed Draco all that much for it; he knew what it was like to want to run from overwhelming responsibility, and he thought that maybe they both deserved to do it sometimes.

He wondered if, when this was all over, if the three of them could take a holiday together somewhere they could forget about everything that was waiting for them back home. Ginny wouldn’t mind, he thought; she and Draco were really getting on well and had been for longer than a week, and that was nice. Having a third person living with them was something that Harry hadn’t anticipated being a good thing at all, but he found that he liked that there was someone there besides Ginny to talk to when it was two in the morning and he’d had sudden ideas.

So, Harry thought that maybe he and Draco Malfoy were friends, and that was fine by him.

He was glad that Draco had begun writing to Pansy Parkinson, who had sent two letters since her first; Draco had caved the night before and let Harry read them. It seemed that she had tired of Blaise and was spending time on holiday by herself as a reward for dumping him on his ass. He was glad to see that she was doing all right and didn’t seem to have any idea of where Draco might be staying, though she asked at least once per letter. He thought that Draco needed that distraction to forget that he was hunted, even if it was only for a few minutes. He needed other friends, and he regretted that he couldn’t let Draco bring Pansy over to visit for a little while.

Harry hadn’t spoken at Pansy’s trial, though he didn’t feel it was necessary. There had been no evidence that she was involved with the Death Eaters beyond her close friendship with Draco, and he had been somewhat outraged that the Wizengamot was calling up Slytherins to be put on trial simply for that association. As much as he had hated the Slytherins at Hogwarts, it hadn’t been fair to condemn the whole house legally, and he’d gained a newfound respect for it in light of Severus Snape’s death. They deserved a fair shot. Luckily, Minerva seemed to feel the same way about the house when she took over the Headmistress post, and she reassured him that Slytherin was going to experience a serious turn-around in reputation.

He missed Hogwarts, missed how simple everything was. When Ginny was in her last year and he was working on his Auror training, he had spent a lot of his free time there. He’d given guest Defence Against the Dark Arts lectures, one a month, and he oversaw the choosing of the new Dumbledore’s Army leadership. The Room of Requirement hadn’t yet been usable at that point in time, as the Fiendfyre had severely damaged the magic in the room, but the castle had a way of putting itself back together and he knew that it was in use once more.

Soon, the last Quidditch game of the year before the House Cup game was going to be played—it was in a week—and he was thinking about taking Draco to see it in Polyjuice. He’d spoken to Ginny about it and she had agreed that Draco could use her hair for the potion so long as he didn’t get a look at her body in the mirror or let his hands wander. Harry had laughed and promised her that he would keep an eye on him with proper punishment when it was necessary. She wasn’t able to attend herself—there was a closed scrimmage that afternoon, and she said that she figured it would be more fun for them if they ignited their old rivalry over the Slytherin/Gryffindor game.

He had written to Minerva asking if he and Ginny couldn’t attend—not even she could know that he was harbouring Malfoy—and she’d written back that they were more than welcome to come if they liked, that they might sit in the stands with the students or sit with the faculty if they preferred. Still, he was a little nervous about asking Draco to come with him. It was a ridiculous thing to worry about, he knew, but he was harbouring an irrational fear that their truce might be broken over such a strong reminder of their enmity. Their tentative friendship was too weak to stand up against something significant, and he didn’t know what would happen if Slytherin lost. When Slytherin lost.

Draco was lost in his numbers, drawing lines over his parchment and squinting at a map as he did so. It was late and Ginny had already gone to bed after spending an hour reasoning out some of the more ridiculous Arithmancy that Draco has proposed; they were left alone to their papers and Good Eats on the television. Malfoy looked tired, Harry thought as he looked him over. They hadn’t been drinking very much that evening, so it must not have been the alcohol taking its toll. “Hey,” he said quietly, and he gave him a weak smile when he jumped and looked up, startled. “Why don’t you take a break?”

Draco sighed gustily and rubbed his face in his hands. “That’s probably a good idea,” he said, sounding exasperated. “It’s all starting to run together.” He pushed away from the table and sat on the couch, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. Harry could see how tense he was, and he was a second from asking if he was all right before Draco just came out with it. “I feel like I’m reaching here. I think that we should bait her to get more information, because we’ve been going over this file for weeks and I don’t think we’re getting anywhere. I don’t think there’s really enough to go on.”

Harry blinked at him and felt a pang of guilt for no reason he could discern—he had been trying his best, after all—and he pursed his lips before he got up and went to the kitchen. He poured a glass of cheap wine for Draco and took it into the living room, handing it over and sitting down next to him. “We’re going to get it,” he said. He did think that baiting M. was dangerous, but there were worse ideas. “I can talk to Kingsley about it. I have to go in tomorrow for a Stealth refresher and I can mull it over with him.”

Draco took a sip of wine and nodded his head, still looking down about it. Harry nudged him with his elbow. “Come on now. Chin up, Malfoy; we’ll have you out of here before you know it.”

“I feel like I’ve been here forever, and I would really like to be able to get out of the flat more than once a month. Not that I don’t appreciate the hospitality, I just like to feel in control of my own fucking life, and I haven’t had a lot of that ever.” He looked up at the television and grunted when Harry nudged him again. “Quit battering me or I’ll file a suit.”

Harry laughed, and he crossed his arms in mock-defiance. “Who’d believe you over me? Besides, you have to cheer up because we’re going to Hogwarts Saturday so we can watch the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. This one determines if they’re both going to the Cup or if one of them will be playing Ravenclaw.”

It was as though someone had turned on the lights behind Draco’s eyes, and Harry smiled as he sat up straight and looked at him with wide, astonished eyes. “Are you serious?” he asked, and he suddenly didn’t look so tired anymore; instead, he looked absolutely thrilled. “We’re going to go watch the game? But won’t people recognise me?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Ah, I’m serious, but you’re going to have to be Polyjuiced while we’re there. I already talked to Ginny; she says you can use her hair if you don’t go poking around places you shouldn’t.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as he didn’t really like the idea of Draco wandering around in his girlfriend’s body, but what could he do? He didn’t want to steal hair from someone off the street, and everyone would expect him to be with Ginny, since they had attended a number of games together in the past. “If you can stomach being a Weasley for a day, that is.”

Draco stared blankly at him for a moment. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly. Harry was worried for a moment that he had misjudged Draco on this issue, and he started to clear his throat before the man continued on. “You think I care about who I look like so long as I get to get out of here and watch some fucking Quidditch? You’re out of your bloody mind, Potter. Yes, yes, let’s go. Saturday, you said?” He rubbed his hands together, looking more than a little impatient. “Are people going to look at me funny if I come as Ginny in Slytherin things? I’ll be damned if I’m dressing for Gryffindor.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t think it will be particularly noticeable. We have gone to a number of different games with bets on, so the staff have seen her in Slytherin before. They’ll just think she’s antagonising me for a laugh.”

“Good. Then they won’t wonder why you and I have a sizable sum of Galleons riding on the game.” Draco rubbed his chin, scratching a bit at the stubble he’d neglected to shave. He paused after a moment, and he looked over at Harry with the first genuine smile that Harry thought he had ever seen uninfluenced by alcohol or drugs, and Harry’s stomach clenched. “Thank you, Harry,” he said quietly, and he nudged him back finally. “Maybe we could knick a practice snitch after the game and have a round for old times.”

Harry nodded his head with a smile of his own. “I think that’s a great idea, if you’re ready to get stomped into the ground.”

Draco laughed brightly, and he shook his head. “I don’t think so, Potter. It’s time to take you down a few pegs, in my opinion.”

They bickered good-naturedly at one another for a while before they fell back into old habits—Draco watching television and Harry staring at his research. It wasn’t a bad way to spend the evening, Harry thought.

 

*

“You want to do what, now?” Kingsley Shacklebolt leaned back in his chair at the desk and folded his hands under his chin, watching Harry as he settled into the chair across from him.

“We want to bait more information out of M., if you think that’s possible without it being much of a problem for us,” Harry stated matter-of-factly, looking around the room and seeing that Ron appeared just as shocked as Kingsley did. He didn’t expect for this to be an easy sell, but it was all they really had to go on.

Kingsley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose; Harry felt a twinge of annoyance. “How do you propose we do that, Harry?” Kingsley rarely used Harry’s first name at the office, but he seemed well and truly exasperated. Harry didn’t blame him, not really; the case was taking a toll on everyone there. While Harry was working from home not only on the case but on completing his Auror license, Kingsley was sending scouting teams to the bog where the trail had gone cold before to try to figure out if there was anything they had missed. Ron wasn’t working explicitly on the case any longer, but he was distressed that he’d been taken off it and deemed unfit for it, given how consumed Harry was by it.

“I don’t know. I was thinking maybe we could write something for the Prophet, give some misleading information and see if he takes the bait. Maybe we could…I don’t know. I thought that you would have more insight on it, honestly.” Harry rubbed his chin and then rested it in his hand, elbow on the desk. He was tired; he and Draco had stayed up later than they should have, given that Harry had Stealth revision in the morning, followed by this meeting. “Look, I just…I really want this case to be over with by the time I take my licensing tests, and I’m going spare going over this shit. I’ve been staring at the files nonstop for weeks. I probably know them better than anyone.”

“Do you?” Kingsley hummed and picked up some notes he’d made on the case earlier to give to Harry; instead of handing them over, he looked to the parchment and then back up at Harry. “Can you tell me what led us to Kilnaborris Bog in the first place?” he asked, testing Harry’s knowledge and reasoning.

Harry shrugged at him. “Sure. In the last set of clues, M. referred to the Auror Office as a scarred castle, twice besieged and finally taken by the case with himself as the victor, and that he was worthy of the title of someone called ‘Sionainne’ at last. One of the Aurors grew up on the Lough Derg and recognised Sionainne as the River Shannon, on which the first lock is Victoria Lock. Nearby was the town of Birr, where Birr Castle stands; it suffered two sieges and took some heavy damage that’s still there. This was backed up by another clue, which stated that the Leviathan was right under the noses of the office. While we thought it referred to an actual leviathan, Birr Castle has a famous telescope called the Leviathan. We searched Birr and found nothing, but we looked instead to the River Shannon and, more importantly, Victoria Lock.

“In the eighties, M. made us aware of the slaying of two extremely rare and valuable dragons that he smuggled into the country, and we were informed that finding the bodies would be a useless undertaking. The peat bogs above the Lough Derg were searched, and in Kilnaborris Bog, we found a dragon fang typical of one of the species. But that’s as far as we got.”

Kingsley nodded his head and looked towards the enchanted window, staring at the conjured scenery outside. “I still think that we missed something at Victoria Lock, but we’ve searched a number of times and come up with nothing. It would, admittedly, be nice to get something new to go on, even if it’s just rehashing of old clues.” He turned his eyes back to Harry. “What sort of baiting do you have in mind? Weasley, don’t be afraid to speak up.”

Ron sat down in the chair next to Harry and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know why you’re wasting all this time trying to find clues. Why doesn’t one of the Aurors Polyjuice as Malfoy and get himself caught? We’re Aurors, we can handle a collector, get out of there, and try to figure out where we are.” There was a moment where no one spoke and they all looked at Ron, who turned red to the tips of his ears. “I’m just saying, this is the first time M. has gone after something we could Polyjuice into. I thought it might be worth looking into as an option.”

Kingsley smiled. “We would be sending an Auror into an unknown situation with no idea how to get out, but we could solve the thing once and for all, or at least get some idea of where we should be looking. I will run this by the head of Law Enforcement, and I’ll get back to you on that. That might just be mental enough to work.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, and he clapped Ron on the shoulder. “Well done, mate. Other than the Polyjuice, though, I think that we should start an ad campaign against M., a real one like we did twenty years ago. He seemed baitable enough, and we got a lot of clues after that. If we piss him off enough, then he’s going to want to come out and fight.”

“I’ll get our writers on it, Potter. Meanwhile, please don’t neglect your work towards licensure. I have no doubt that you will pass with flying colours, but you were struggling in your revision this morning, and I would hate to see you get anything but the highest marks.”

 

*

Spring was in the air and Draco was elated. The sun was shining on his face and for once, he wasn’t afraid of it freckling—he was absolutely covered in them. He had Polyjuiced into Ginny Weasley an hour before and had a heavy flask of the potion in his cloak to keep up the illusion; he found that it wasn’t half as distasteful as he would have imagined. She had a Chaser’s body and her clothes fit her well, and the Slytherin green he’d clothed her body in complimented her colouring.

They had Apparated to the gate leading to Hogwarts, and Harry had led him inside with a bright smile, clearly just as excited about seeing a game as he was. Shacklebolt had ensured that they would be able to fly after if they liked, altering the spells regarding Draco’s safety to encompass the Hogwarts grounds for the day so no alarms would be set off if they got carried away on the pitch after the game. Draco was most nervous, however, about the fact that he needed to be acting the part of Harry’s girlfriend. The very notion made his stomach feel strange, but he’d quashed his initial reaction to the idea and agreed to it for the sake of having some sense of normalcy again.

It was beautiful outside, and the moment they got inside the gates, Draco sprang away from Harry and ran towards the castle, feeling again like he was eleven years old and just learning the magic of this place. As much as he loved the Malfoy Manor, Hogwarts was where he had felt the most at home. He had been a fool as a teenager to not acknowledge it. Now, he wanted to spend as much time possible there, especially after having been cooped up for so long, and he considered the possibility of ignoring his instinct to start Healer training to see if McGonagall would take him on as a professor.

He’d teach Muggle Studies if it meant he got to live at Hogwarts.

He could hear Harry laughing at him, and he whipped around to grin widely at him, throwing his arms open and falling back into the grass. “Come on, you prat. We have to get good seats before everyone floods the stadium,” Harry said, offering a hand down to him and hefting him back to his feet. It was odd to be shorter than Potter, and he wasn’t sure that it was a good angle to view him from. He looked much better from above.

They wound their way to the Quidditch pitch, only side-tracked by Draco’s occasional bursts of exuberant energy, and when they came to the stadium, Draco thought that he might break down and cry. Here, alliances had been forged and destroyed. Here, he had poured out his body’s weight in sweat, had cried and laughed and roared with victory, a snitch trying desperately to escape from his grasp. He realised how dearly he missed flying, and it made his heart ache.

There were students already trickling into the stands, and Draco was too caught up in his emotions to notice Harry when he came up beside him until an arm slipped around his shoulders. He reflexively leaned into Harry’s side and rubbed a hand that was not his own over his face. “Sorry,” he said, his voice feminine and more hoarse than he would have liked. “It’s just been a while.”

“Mmm. Soon, it’ll have been, ‘the other day.’ Don’t start crying on me, Draco. Ginny spent a lot of time on your makeup before she left for practise, and you’d hate to mess that up.” Harry’s voice was understanding and Draco felt an alien surge of affection for it; he smiled up at him and nodded his head. “You’re ready then?”

Draco nodded his head, and they made their way into the stands. They had agreed beforehand that they would sit at the split of Gryffindor and Slytherin students so they would blend into the crowd better, though Draco didn’t think that it was going to do them any good. Students were already pointing at them, and he felt the irrational urge to taunt them.

They took their seats, and Draco surveyed those who dared sit close to them. He recognised some of the faces as those who had been very young when he was still in Hogwarts, and it made him smile to see who had paired up and who had formed rivalries, even within the houses. He was shocked, however, to see that the Gryffindors and Slytherins weren’t as rigidly split as they had once been; even the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were mingling with the two houses, who were so mixed at this point that it would have been hard to identify faces he should have recognised if not for the garish team colours everyone was wearing. Harry had said something earlier in the week about inter-house unity, and he saw that the efforts were really working. The war had done some good to Hogwarts, even though much of it was still being rebuilt.

Harry took his hand and laced their fingers, and he gave him a startled look before he looked up to see McGonagall approaching them. He put on a smile and leaned into Harry’s shoulder. “Hello, Headmistress,” he said pleasantly. “I hope Gryffindor is ready to lose. We’ve got a hefty wager on this one.”

Minerva smiled down at them and chuckled at Draco. “Miss Weasley, I hope you’re prepared to eat your hat! How are the Holyhead Harpies treating you? Oh, and Harry, it’s wonderful to see you again. You won’t give her too hard of a time when she’s paying out, will you?”

Harry laughed and bumped his head against Draco’s. “She’s well-aware of my stance on the issue. I suppose we’ll have to see, though; I haven’t seen either team play in a while and it’s anyone’s game as far as we’re concerned.”

“My hat is going uneaten, Professor,” Draco snorted, and he knocked his head back against Harry’s, a bit harder than Harry had done. “And the Harpies are working me to death. It’s a wonder I make it to the bed before I pass out. Harry’s been very accommodating.” He saw a camera flash from the corner of his eye, and he felt his stomach clench—did M. know they were here? He couldn’t possibly, and besides, Draco looked every bit like Ginevra Weasley. He saw that it was just some of the students taking photos of their friends, and he relaxed against Harry’s side.

“Well, I’m glad to hear they’re keeping you busy. I’ll leave you two to it. You’re welcome in the faculty box if the students harass you too much.” She left them where they sat, and Draco watched her take her seat near the microphone before he breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

“How’d I do?”

“You did great,” Harry said, “though if you knock my head like that again, I might forget you’re not Ginny.” He smirked at Draco, who shuddered with revulsion and playfully shoved at him.

“Get off m—”

“Harry Potter! Can we have your picture?” Draco could barely keep from rolling his eyes when they were interrupted by a pair of young students, the ones with the camera. He wanted to tell the kid to sod off and get ready to watch the game; Harry had other plans. “Is this your girlfriend, Mister Potter?” the boy asked, grinning at Draco as Harry wrapped his arm around his waist and pulled him close.

“She is, yes. She’s a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, you know. Smile, sweetheart.” Draco did just that, and he dug his fingernails into Harry’s back when he leaned over to kiss him on the cheek for the photograph. He was going to kill Potter for that, honestly he was. How mortifying.

The students looked at Draco with wide eyes, and he would have sighed if it wouldn’t have offended the poor kids. “That’s right. If you write the team, I can get you some proper autographs. I’m sure Harry would be happy to sign any pictures you want, too. He loves giving autographs.” He fluttered his eyelashes, and he felt Harry’s hand on his waist grab on harder than was necessary. “As many as you like! Get them for all your friends!”

“The game is going to start soon,” Harry insisted, and he waved the kids away. Draco watched them go before he rewarded Harry with a shit-eating grin. Harry glared at him. “Why, why would you do that? Am I not a kind and generous host?” He didn’t sound very serious, so Draco drew himself up and puffed out his chest.

“You deserved it. We’ll see how Gryffindor fares, and—Potter, stop staring at my tits, there are children about—and you’ll rue the day you ever suggested that Slytherin might lose.” He relished in the blush that spread over Harry’s cheeks, and he looked to the skies.

 

 

Harry was having a hard time with Draco being in Ginny’s body. His recent string of dreams hadn’t kept him in the best state of mind regarding the man, and now he looked just like Ginny even if he didn’t act like her very well. When they arrived on the grounds and Draco spun out of his arms, delighting in the sunshine and freedom from the fifteen-metre tether, he’d watched and fought the urge to run after him and tackle him to the grass. How many days had he and Ginny spent out in the grounds, kissing and talking quietly to one another?

That was Draco, not Ginny. He had to keep himself in check.

It wasn’t made any easier by the fact that they had to act like a couple. Draco knew just how to lean against him when he wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and it made Harry sigh. He felt bad for him, felt bad that he hadn’t seen the Quidditch pitch since the war, and likely hadn’t seen a broom in longer. He was afraid that Draco was going to cry, and that really would have done horrible things to his poor sanity. He was glad when Draco put himself back together before he could cry, and they found refuge in the stands.

He was well-pleased to see how McGonagall’s inter-house unity projects were coming along, and while he and Draco sat at the line where Gryffindor and Slytherin had divided in their youth, they were in a sea of all four houses as the stadium filled up. Draco took to Ginny’s snarky side better than he could have expected, playing Minerva and the children off perfectly even though he wanted to punch him for suggesting the autographs.

The teams strode out onto the field across from one another, and Harry leaned forward in his seat, smiling. He glanced at Draco, who was scanning the faces of the team members for Slytherin, and he nudged him with an elbow. “Just enjoy the game.”

“I’m going to.”

Madam Hooch stood between them, her voice magnified as she announced the captains’ names and then ordered them to shake hands. Harry blinked when Draco held out his hand, and he looked down at it for a moment before he took it and they shook as they had so many times before, except now there was no malice. Draco smiled at him, a smile that was distinctly not Ginny’s even a bit, and he laughed. “I propose a contest,” he said, releasing the hand after the shake. “First one to spot the snitch buys a round at the Hog’s Head after we’re done here tonight.”

“Oh, you’re on, Potter. Give it five minutes, then we’ll start.” Draco looked back to the pitch, and Harry noticed that he was holding his breath as the teams mounted their brooms. The snitch was released, vanishing quickly from sight, and Madam Hooch held her whistle to her lips with one hand, the Quaffle in the other. The tension was palpable between the two teams, and Harry realised that he was holding his breath when the whistle was blown and both teams took to the skies, the Quaffle thrown high into the air. He gave an almighty cheer for Gryffindor, and he looked over as Ginny’s voice filled his ears with screaming for Slytherin.

After having seen several of Ginny’s practises and one of her scrimmages, Hogwarts Quidditch seemed downright slow. The captains of both teams served as their Keepers, and the Slytherin team had more girls than he had ever seen signed on; the girls were all chasers, quicker than Gryffindor’s, but Gryffindor was skilled and employed strategy to defeat speed.

The first goal was scored, 10-0 for Slytherin, and Draco was screaming and on his feet, cheeks flushed. Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head in amusement, taking him back under his arm when he settled down with his tongue stuck out. “Put that away, the game’s just started!”

After the first five minutes had passed (20-10 Slytherin), Harry nudged Draco and they both began to look for the snitch between what was going on around the goals. Harry found it difficult to watch the game as a whole when he was at Hogwarts, so consumed he was with finding the snitch and keeping an eye on the Seekers. Old habits died hard, it seemed, because Draco had taken to the task immediately. He distantly heard another goal scored, heard the announcer call out the tie. “You know,” he said so Draco could hear, “Slytherin has to be at least sixty points in to qualify for the House Cup.”

A few moments later, there was another goal called, and Draco grinned as Slytherin took the lead once more. “Not a problem, I think. I’m not sure either Keeper is particularly good at his job. They’re both scoring too much.”

“The Chasers are just too good. I think one of the Slytherin girls has a career in it. Reminds me of Gin.” He didn’t look at any of the players save the Seekers, despite all their talk. He could see that they weren’t having any luck with the snitch, either, and he sighed. “It might be too early.”

“It’s never too fucking early.” Draco shielded his eyes from the sun and squinted at the pitch. “ _Aha! There!_ ” The students around them went quiet as Draco pointed, and it seemed that the Seekers had heard him, because they leapt into action and started rushing across the pitch.

“What? Where?” Harry tried to follow where Draco was pointing, and when he saw the gleam of gold, he snorted and saw the Seekers realise their mistake. “You shithead, that was someone’s watch.” The Seekers were gesturing rudely at their section of the stands.

Draco erupted into peals of laughter, delighted with himself at his ploy, and he smirked up at Harry once he’d caught his breath. “There are no Wronski Feint in the stands, so I had to improvise. I didn’t think they’d hear me.”

“You’re very clever.” Harry couldn’t help smiling at him, though, and he looked back to the pitch quickly after, as Draco was not only still looking, but was flushed and grinning and he loved that look on Ginny.

It was no less than an hour before the Seekers suddenly moved into action again. The score was high at 70-50 for Gryffindor, and Harry could see that Draco was damned nervous about it. They had been distracted, arguing over the merits of the Gryffindor Beaters, when Draco leapt to his feet and thumped Harry hard on the shoulder, keeping his mouth shut but pointing to the Slytherin goalposts, where the snitch was circling the Keeper’s boot. Harry groaned as the Slytherin Seeker snatched it, no more than half an inch ahead of the Gryffindor, and he shook his head with a smile. “Looks like they’ll be playing again in the finals.”

“ _Yes! And I will be playing you again in the House Cup, because I am going to beat you again!_ ” Draco’s excited squealing was echoed by those in the stands, and he threw back his head to laugh. Harry tapped him on the nose and grinned at him as the students around them swarmed towards the field.

“You’re on. I’m going to win my ten Galleons back one way or another.” Harry smiled at him and took him by the hand, lacing their fingers together and pulling them into the stream of students heading out of the stands. There were some stragglers, but they would probably enjoy a show.

Once they were out of the pitch, Harry waved to Madam Hooch, who nodded towards the Quidditch shed and waved her wand; he thought that he was going to have to get a leash for Draco, who pulled out of his grasp and ran for the shed, ignoring the students and vanishing inside. He found the practice balls and opened the case, snatching the snitch out of it. Harry found him rooting around for brooms, and he smiled at the sight of the school brooms. He had funded a donation to the school for lending underprivileged players good brooms, and the shed had a number of them lined up. “There we are.” He grabbed one, and he snorted as Draco snatched one for himself and dashed out the door. “Wait the hell up.”

 

 

The moment that Draco touched the broom, he knew that there was nothing in the world that could keep him from sitting astride it. He shoved past Harry and, the moment his shoes touched the grass, he shoved the broom handle between his legs and kicked off from the grass. The wind whipped through his long, red hair as he soared over the crowd of rejoicing students, and he did a mad dash around the pitch before he looked up to see Harry flying in his direction. The students below realised that there was about to be a Seekers’ game involving Harry Potter, and they spread out on the grass, sitting to watch and socialise in their downtime.

“Are you ready, Potter?” he called out, and he reached into his pocket to present the snitch, gleaming gold with beating wings. “No rules. No guidelines. Just you and me and this. A real Slytherin-Gryffindor match!” He thrust the fist holding the snitch into the air, and the children below cheered.

“ _On my whistle!_ ” Madam Hooch was still below, and she had cast _Sonorus_ on herself. “Three! Two! One!”

Draco threw the snitch as hard as he could manage, and there was a roar from below as he and Harry began to move. Draco had never moved like this, had never been so small on a broom, and it made him feel powerful. His lanky limbs weren’t a problem today, as he and Harry did a lap around the pitch to let the snitch hide properly, spiralling around one another.

He had the biggest, stupidest grin on his face, and he couldn’t stop laughing. After months of captivity, he was free, really, truly free there in the skies, and his heart soared as the wind and the sun washed over him. He had won the competition with Harry, and Slytherin had won the game, and there was nothing in the whole world that could ruin this day for him even if M. himself strode out onto the field and took him away.

Draco felt like he was fifteen again, when the war was just a rumour and he could still be young.

When they completed their lap, they broke apart almost violently, and the crowd of students was extremely excited, screaming for both Ginny and Harry and waving their house banners. He could see camera flashes as they searched the pitch feverishly, and he knew that Ginny was going to appreciate some of the truly wonderful shots they must be getting of her, all determination and fury in the Seekers’ game.

Seekers’ games were different from regular Quidditch in a number of different ways. It was more than searching for the snitch, as it usually took its time before showing up; the game was a display of flying ability and skill. Quidditch rulebooks were thrown out the window, as the only rule for the game was that someone had to catch the snitch before it was over. Draco intended to give the kids a good show and catch it in the end, and he looked over to Harry, who nodded in silent understanding.

The snitch didn’t matter yet. All that mattered was the broom and the air.

Draco pulled back on his broom handle and shot vertically into the sky, so high that the old school brooms would have started vibrating. The new one certainly didn’t, though he didn’t know if that was due to Hooch knowing that they meant to play after the game or not. The clouds were fluffy and low that day, and he shot into one of them so he could feel the familiar tickle of water vapour on his face and forget for a moment that he was anywhere at all but on his broomstick. He stopped for a moment, figuring that Potter would join him soon enough.

He heard a shout to his right, and he turned his head just in time to dodge the dark mass moving through the cloud, laughing wildly. “You’re going to fucking get us killed!” he yelled after Harry, who turned around and flew over to him.

“What a way to go, though. Come on, Draco. The kids need to see a good Wronski Feint, after the bullshit you pulled on the Seeker earlier. Maybe they’ll forgive you for it.” He was grinning, and Draco couldn’t help a stupid smile in return.

“All right. Ready?” He put up three fingers, counting down to one, and they angled their brooms together and went into twin dives faster than freefalls, speeding together towards the ground. There was an unspoken challenge to get as close to the grass and their crowd as possible, and Draco could see specks becoming heads becoming face becoming pupils. He jerked his broom handle up and skimmed over the heads of the crowd, his toes brushing the hat off of a girl’s head, and he could feel Harry at his right without even glancing at him.

The students were screaming and applauding, and Draco glimpsed a glint of gold rushing past him. So, it seemed, did Harry, and he caught a glimpse of Madam Hooch’s wand as he turned to give chase. It was immediately apparent what she had done—the restrictions on the snitch had been removed, and it was functioning as though it were in a professional game.

He always did like a challenge. He caught Harry’s eye, and they gave chase.

 

 

Harry was teeming with energy the moment he took to the sky and began to fly with Draco. He was a beautiful flyer, even if he was in Ginny’s body. He knew how Ginny flew, and he knew how Draco flew (maybe better than anyone in the world, given their rivalry), and that was all Draco on the broom. What struck him most, as they circled one another and dove and tore through the crowd, was the look on Draco’s face.

He had never seen that expression, not on Ginny and certainly not on Draco.

There was so much emotion in his eyes that Harry was certain he was going to cry. He looked like someone who had spent their entire life falling down stairs, only to finally make it to the top. He could see how white his knuckles were on the broomstick, how determined he was to fly and be away from the ground, where everything was awful, that he knew what his role was in this Seekers’ game.

He had to lose.

His pride would never have let him lose a game to Draco Malfoy on purpose before, but there were some things which transcended his hubris. Giving his most bitter school rival the only win he would ever have, after years of losing and years of imprisonment in one way or another, would be just the sort of thing that Malfoy needed to push him through this game with M. That did not, however, mean that Harry had to throw the game. He would let Malfoy win when he would have won anyway.

When they had played in school, Malfoy had always been bigger than he was. As an adult, he was especially so, but even as a child, his size had slowed him down. He wasn’t bulky by any stretch of the imagination, but he was tall and leggy, and that wasn’t a good thing for a Seeker. Seekers needed to be short and thin, built for speed, and as they’d grown, Harry had known that Draco would never play Quidditch professionally if he stuck to his position.

When Draco was Polyjuiced as Ginny Weasley, however, he was more formidable than Harry could have imagined. He wasn’t so sure that he was going to have to try to lose; Draco was a natural Seeker by ability and now physically, and the snitch was not going to be easy to catch for either of them.

They wound around one another and duelled with dangerous dives for which students would have received detentions. They screamed as they flew so close to stands that they were sure they’d collide with something, and the snitch taunted them mercilessly, always just out of reach. He rolled under Draco’s broom as the snitch dipped towards the grass, cutting off Draco’s dive, and they very nearly collided. He was rewarded with a glare that had no hint of Ginny in it, and he knew that the game was about to become dangerous.

So it did. They fought in the air, never with fists but with sudden cut-offs and sharp insults. Students screamed more than once in fear for the lives of the Seekers, for Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, and Harry thought distantly that they wouldn’t have been half as scared if it had been Draco without Polyjuice on the field. They would have screamed only for him.

Thus, it was only Harry’s voice that screamed out in shock, “ _Draco_!” Draco twirled around the goalpost that Harry hadn’t thought he’d seen, a hand on the post as he spiralled around it towards the ground on his broom. Harry stared, wondering what he was doing, and he realised a moment before it happened that Draco was gaining momentum. Just before he hit the grass, he launched off the goalpost and shot across the pitch faster than Harry had ever seen even a professional player fly, and he started flying after him to no avail.

Draco caught the snitch when Harry was still too far behind to have a chance.

The crowd erupted, and Draco screamed his victory to the skies, pumping the fist holding the snitch. Harry was laughing, and he flew up next to him, yelping in surprise when Draco launched himself off of his broom in his elation and landed on his own. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and clutched that snitch as he demanded a victory lap between laughter that Harry was certain was mostly crying. Harry couldn’t do anything but oblige, circling the pitch not once, but thrice, and he knew by the dampness of his t-shirt between his shoulders that Draco really was crying against his back.

 

 

Draco couldn’t really stop.

The moment his fingers clasped around the snitch, the sheer power of the emotion that washed over him was enough to nearly knock him off of his broom, and he screamed in a voice that wasn’t his own, shaking all over and struggling to keep composed.

_I won._

_I finally fucking won._

When he saw Potter, he didn’t even think about what he was doing before he leapt from his broom and landed behind him, wrapping his arms around his neck so that he could hide his face from everyone and just laugh until there were tears running down his face. With the tears came a complete loss of emotional control, and Draco felt himself unravelling as he pressed against Harry’s back on a broom above most of Hogwarts. He didn’t want to land. He didn’t want to stop flying, because that meant that he would have to go home, and all of this would have to stop.

He didn’t know how long Potter had been flying him around the pitch until he felt them slow and there was a hand on his fist; Harry was turning a little on the broom handle and Draco lifted his head to look at him. He realised with a jolt that Potter must have had some lessons in decorum, because they weren’t on the pitch any longer, and they were alone over the Forbidden Forest. “They had all kinds of cameras,” Harry said in explanation, and Draco swallowed thickly.

“Thank you,” he said weakly, and he loosened his hand around the snitch as Harry’s fingers tried to remove it; they succeeded and stashed it in a pocket. He lifted his hand to wipe the tears from his face, and he saw that it was his own hand and not Ginny’s any longer. How long had Harry been flying him around to calm him down? He wiped his face and frowned as Harry looked to be trying to contain a smile. “Funny, is it?” He didn’t have the energy to say something sharp.

Harry did laugh then, and he bristled. “No, no, Draco. You just…you still have on all of Ginny’s makeup. Well, kind of. You’ve smudged it a fair bit.” He reached up and tucked a lock of Draco’s hair, untamed and made savage by the wind, behind his ear, and Draco felt his stomach flip.

He had the sudden, irrational and unfounded urge to grab Harry’s hand and hold it; it would have been easy, they’d held hands much of the day. Out here, with no Polyjuice Potion and illusion to maintain for the faculty and students, it would have been something else entirely. It would have been something with which Draco wasn’t sure he would be comfortable, given the identity and gender of the person involved. It would have been much easier to bear if Potter would just _look away_ for a moment, but instead he had taken on the task of wiping away the makeup smudged on Draco’s face.

Draco didn’t know what to do with his eyes; he looked anywhere he could to avoid looking up at Harry because he was certain that he might do something reckless that he would regret later. He did not fancy Potter, nor did he have any particular interest in having a casual snog with him over the Forbidden Forest, if he wasn’t thrown off the broom for the attempt.

Perhaps it was a good thing that he had lost so many matches against Harry in school, if it made his body a traitor to his mind, to his reason. He really had to rein himself in and gain control again, and he breathed a sigh of relief when Harry finished his task and turned back around. He buried his face against his back once more and closed his eyes, comforted that the stink of sweat and tears on Harry’s shirt was not something anyone alive could possibly have found enticing.

“Do you want to go back?” Harry asked, and Draco grunted in response before he shrugged his shoulders.

“Yeah. I’m exhausted. Did you see what I did with the goalpost? My arm is going to be sore for a week.” He lifted his head and looked over Harry’s shoulder, smiling at the familiar sight of Hogwarts from the air.

“Merlin, you scared the _shit_ out of me. I hope someone got photographs. I expect we’ll get copies of all of them in the post soon enough, and we’ll get to see them. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Harry laughed, and Draco was proud of himself.

He had finally won against Harry Potter. He really could do anything he set his mind to.

 

*

The last vestiges of cold weather were losing their holds as May approached, and Harry smiled at the sun. It was the first time he’d left the house without Malfoy or Ginny for a while, and he had elected to spend his time having lunch with Ron and Hermione. He hadn’t had any alone time with them in ages, not really, and he thought that he could use some time out of the house.

Since the Quidditch match at Hogwarts, the atmosphere had been odd between him and Draco, and he didn’t really understand what was going on between them. They seemed to regard one another as though walking on eggshells, too afraid to fuck up a tentative friendship to really open up about things unless they were well and truly sloshed. The problem with that was that Harry wasn’t drinking so much, since he and Ginny had started putting themselves back together, so he hadn’t done so much bonding with Malfoy as he should have.

He shook his head. He didn’t owe Malfoy anything; if anything, it was the other way around. Still, he caught himself liking him at odd moments, such as when he stood over the stove in the mornings, eyes heavy with sleep and hair an absolute disaster, hands busy with making eggs and a cigarette dangling from between his lips. He liked him when he played Exploding Snap with Ginny and lost, raking his hands through his hair and sticking his tongue out at her as she laughed uproariously at his misfortune. He didn’t mind when Draco had consumed slightly too much wine and fell asleep against his shoulder on the couch, and he’d mastered the art of manoeuvring an arm from between them so Malfoy could sleep comfortably while he read books on geography and town histories. Ginny didn’t even look at them strangely when she saw them like this any longer.

Malfoy— _, he thought—was becoming close as a friend, for both he and Ginny. He supposed it shouldn’t be so strange. Soon, he would have been staying in their flat for three months; it was no small wonder that the three of them were adapting and evolving by this time. They never would have survived if they hadn’t learned to like one another._

_There were some things, however, that Harry was not prepared to handle and struck from his mind as often as he could do so. He dreamed about Draco more often than he dreamed of anything else, of freeing him from the chase and watching television and sharing cigarettes. Those weren’t the things he struck from his mind; that was reserved for the dreams of lingering smiles, of Draco in the sun and laughing as he spun madly in the grass with his arms outstretched, when Harry would find himself compelled to grab and Draco would meet his eye with a knowing, inviting smile. _Grab me_ , he would whisper. _Come on, Potter. You’re the sodding Boy Who Lived. Don’t you deserve what you want?__

__Don’t you deserve whatever it is that you want?_ _

_Harry didn’t really know what that meant; at least, he wasn’t prepared to admit to himself that he had some idea of what that meant. He didn’t dare bring it up with Ginny out of fear that she would either leave him on the spot or admit that she had been having dreams of a similar nature. He wasn’t prepared to deal with either possibility. At the same time, he didn’t want Draco to leave. He really, really didn’t want him to leave the flat. He felt as though, in some way, Draco was responsible for the calm that had settled between himself and Ginny, and that it would all fall apart if he left._

_He sighed when he came to the café where he, Ron, and Hermione frequently met when they had the time, and he left the sun with some reluctance. All his misgivings about going indoors vanished when he saw his friends sitting in a booth by the window, and he felt himself grinning when he made his way over and sat down across from them. “I almost forgot what you looked like, Hermione,” he said with a grin, and he playfully stole a sip of her wine before he winked._

_They were both brightly smiling as soon as they saw him, and Hermione was blushing. “I’m sorry, Harry. I just…” She trailed off and glanced at Ron as though she was trying to see if what she wanted to say was something she should. She quickly threw up a _Muffliato_ , then continued. “I know you’re busy with Malfoy, and you’ve been working so hard. Ginny says that things have been going really well between you two, and given my history with Malfoy, I just don’t know if I feel comfortable coming over there and disrupting whatever harmony you’ve salvaged.”_

_Ron nodded his head in agreement. “She’s right, mate. It’d be damn strange, wouldn’t it? Coming over and doing dinner with you and Gin and then Malfoy’s there glaring at everyone over the peas? I don’t know how you do it. He was a complete wanker when I was working with him,” he said, and he looked rather embarrassed._

_Hermione cut in quickly before Harry could speak. “Ginny told us that the three of you are friends. We don’t want to dredge up old rivalries or upset anyone, and we know you’re not keen on leaving him there by himself—”_

_“Not that we blame you for that at all; I wouldn’t leave Malfoy alone for a minute in my house.”_

_“—because he’s stuck there all the time already, and he’s probably going spare over this whole thing. He’s lucky you care so much, Harry, but I don’t think I’m ready to give him a second chance yet.” She nodded her head, almost in unison with Ron, and they looked at Harry expectantly._

_Harry stared blankly at the pair of them for a moment before he lifted an eyebrow. “Well, hello to you, too,” he said, clearly taken aback by the sudden onslaught of information. He cleared his throat and smiled at the waiter, ordering water and his usual roast beef sandwich before he leaned back against his chair and crossed his arms, regarding his two best friends. “Have you two been practising that? The explanation, I mean?”_

_Ron turned red to the tips of his ears, and Hermione glanced out the window. “Sorry, Harry. It’s just weird to think of you and Malfoy being friends at all, you know?” She smiled apologetically at him. “Ginny seems to be happy with the situation right now, though, says he gives you a break from each other. I’m really glad that you’re happy with it, you know?”_

_Harry frowned at her choice of words, and he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know that I would say I’m happy about it. The flat’s not really big enough for three, and he’s always there, but it could be worse. He’s not a complete wanker.” He smiled at Ron then. “He mostly just sits around watching telly and drinking. He helps out around the place, too. Once he started, I thought he was calling house elves from the Manor to help, but I’ll be damned if I don’t catch him cooking in the kitchen at least twice a day. Ginny likes not having to worry about whether I’ll remember to make dinner, and I get to focus on the case.”_

_Ron made a face. “I don’t get how you can stand him. When Williamson and I were at the Manor, he was completely impossible. He tried to get me to act like a house elf, and he would scream at Williamson every time he so much as took his eyes off him. He’s such a bossy git, I’d have lost my mind if I had to stay another day,” he admitted, and he gave an apologetic shrug with a smile. “You’re made of stronger stuff than I am.”_

_Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. “I think Malfoy would blame it on my hero complex. To be honest with you, I don’t know what it is. He’s nice enough to us, but I could just be going mad. He’s been living with us for almost three months, and no one’s killed anyone yet. Half the time, I expect to wake up with him curled up at the foot of our bed like some fucked up, poncy dog. What’s more fucked up about that is that I think Gin would just tuck her feet in under him and toss him the spare blanket.”_

_Hermione looked aghast. “Harry, I know that you and Ginny aren’t having a great go of it right now, but do you think…I mean, do you—”_

_“No.” Harry answered her suspicion decisively, shaking his head to push the point. “She doesn’t like him like that, I’m sure; besides, I don’t think his pride would let him go after a Weasley.” He shrugged at Ron in apology. “You know how he is. Anyway, it’s not like that. Ginny and I are on the mend, you know, and things are really going well for us. I think our idea is going to work.”_

_Hermione’s brow creased. “What plan?” she asked, her look of concern mirroring Ron’s; Harry realised with a jolt that he hadn’t told either of them about his and Ginny’s agreement._

_“Er, that is…” He chewed on his lip, and he sighed. “All right, Ginny and I had a talk a few weeks back. She said she reckoned it wasn’t working between us, and I agreed because _fuck_ it wasn’t working. I was losing my fucking mind with all the fighting, and so was she, and we agreed that we’d, you know, give it a last real try. I’ve been really trying, and it feels like it’s working, I think.” He hated talking about this, especially in front of Ginny’s brother, but they were his best friends and if anyone deserved to know, then they did._

_He was regarded with silence for a few moments, and he didn’t miss the significant look between the two of them. “Look, I know it sounds bad, but it’s been going better than you’d think.”_

_It was Ron who opened his mouth first. “Do you think it’s going to work in the long run? I mean, you guys have been together since the war ended.”_

_Harry took a drink of his water and picked at his napkin. “I hope so. I really do love her, but I didn’t expect it to be so hard. It was great when it started, but sometimes I don’t think that we’re meant to be living together. We get on each other’s nerves so much that sometimes I think I’m going to just fucking explode, but we’re working on it.” He gave them a hopeful smile. “I think it’s worth this last shot. If nothing else, we’ve got to try.”_

_Hermione and Ron looked at each other again, looking worried about him, and Harry thought that he might have seen some pity there. It fuelled a small, irrational anger deep in his chest, but he pushed it down and smiled at the server when their food arrived. “I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same, her or Malfoy. How are things going with you two?”_

_They spent the rest of their lunch talking about the Ministry, and Hermione promised to look into the towns around Birr before they parted ways. Harry left the café realising just how much he wanted this case to be over so he could spend more time with his best friends, and he knew that he needed to make another grand romantic gesture for Ginny to show her that he really meant it when he said that he wanted this last try to work. Their vacation to Paris had been thoroughly ruined when Malfoy had shown up in the rainy street, and now that it was spring, there were so many fun places he could take her._

_He arrived home and smiled when he saw that Ginny was home early from practise and leaning a sympathetic ear to Draco, who was ranting about Arithmancy and violently gesturing at his spread of parchment on the table. “Hi,” he said to the pair of them, winking as Ginny shot him an exasperated look and Draco didn’t even look up. “Ginny, can I talk to you?”_

_Draco stopped talking then and looked up, giving Harry a scathing look that clearly showed his displeasure at being interrupted. Ginny, on the other hand, looked grateful and got up, patting Malfoy on the head and earning an indignant squawk before she stepped into the bedroom. Harry followed after her and watched her affectionately as she settled on the side of the bed. “What is it?” she asked, and Harry shut the door behind himself._

_“I’ve been thinking,” he said with a smile, walking over to her and resting his hands on her shoulders. He leaned down to kiss her. “I think we should try taking another trip since our last one got interrupted. Do you have a few days off practise here in the next few weeks?”_

_Ginny returned the kiss and smiled up at him, looking surprised. “Another trip?” she asked quietly, and she took him by the hips, falling backward and pulling him on top of her. “Where do you want to go? Do you think we should? He’s—”_

_“I’m not all that concerned; I’m sure he’ll be fine here by himself for a while. I’m more worried about _you_. After I get licensed, I’m not going to have half as much time as I do right now, and I’ll be right back in the office once this case is finished. I want to spend a little time with you, just you.” Harry rested comfortably on top of her, propped up on an elbow and brushing his fingers over her jaw._

_Ginny blushed, and Harry grinned at her when she spoke. “Oh, all right. I’m sure I can get a practise or two off for personal time. The season doesn’t start until after the World Cup anyway.” She met his eyes and grinned. “Will you take me to Spain? I’d like to spend some time in the sun when I don’t have to be worried about dodging Bludgers.”_

_Harry was positively beaming when he nodded his head. “I’d be happy to take you to Spain,” he murmured, and he lifted his wand to cast a Silencing Charm on the room. “Anywhere you want.”_

 

 

*

The baiting game with M. started that week, and Draco was glued to the Prophet, his eyes sweeping over every issue for hints. The correspondence in every issue, back and forth, took not only the Potter-Malfoy household by storm, but the rest of the wizarding community as well; to say that it was a hot topic in the press was a complete understatement. Draco had never been much of a hot topic in the press, not like Potter had been when they’d been in school, but he was starting to get a taste of fame.

It started off slowly. The first day, he received exactly three owls from supporters around England. The second day, however, started early with dozens of letters, so many that they were slipping off his desk. He was receiving support and well-wishes from surprising places, though he got just as much hate mail informing him that he deserved to be caught and strung up in a dungeon somewhere. Pansy, at least, was very supportive, and that was all that mattered to him.

He was sprawled over the couch early in the morning, nursing a large mug of coffee and reading over her latest letter as owls swooped in and out of the window, dropping letters on the ground next to him. Potter had cast some interesting wards after Pansy’s first letter, ones which functioned to strip tracking charms from all owls and their letters, and so he wasn’t worried that they were dangerous. Instead, he simply focused on the words of his old friend.

_Draco,_

_The papers are going mad about you; everyone here in town is talking about what’s going on. You must be out of your mind with how boring this whole thing is, and I hope it’s over with soon so you and I can spend some fucking time together. I miss you, you prat._

_I thought that yesterday’s letter from your mysterious hunter was pretty interesting, though. Have the Aurors told you how far they’ve come in the past to figuring the whole thing out? If you had some idea of that, it might be easier to figure out what this M. is talking about._

_I wish this was over already. I can’t imagine how miserable you must be over it. Your probation is going to end in a few years, and then you should probably consider either capitalising on your newfound notoriety or skipping the country altogether. Maybe we could go together, just the two of us. Blaise was a shit travel companion, and I didn’t get to do most of the things I wanted to do; you and I should take some historical tours or something around places we’ve never been, somewhere with old class that you and I are used to. You should see the place I’m visiting now. There’s a weird little box-looking castle and all these old Muggle religious ruins that I’m not sure are held up by anything but miracles at this point. Maybe there is a Muggle god. I think you would like it here, though._

_Or maybe we can just disappear and find a place on the river somewhere, where no one will ever bother us again._

_I’m really worried about you. Really, really worried about you. You’ve sounded so miserable in your last few letters, and I think you need a real vacation. You should convince your Auror detail to take you somewhere you can lie in the sun. Maybe you can finally get a tan._

_Let’s just hope that you don’t freckle, shall we? Perish the thought!_

_Tell me that you’re holding it together. Please, please tell me that you’re holding it together._

_Love,_

_Pansy_

Draco lay his head back against the pillow and sipped his coffee, staring up at the ceiling with a deep sigh. He did need a vacation. He was so stressed that he could hardly function, and he was about to be left alone for a week. He didn’t want to think about how that was going to wear on his stability.

He looked up when Harry came into the room, yawning and scratching the back of his ridiculous head, and he felt the words coming out of his mouth, betraying him, before he could stop them. “Harry? Can I ask you something?”

Harry grunted in his direction but didn’t answer for a moment, dipping into the kitchen for a moment before he emerged again with a cup of coffee for himself. “Lift,” he commanded, voice rough with sleep, and he gestured at Draco’s legs; Draco did so without thinking, and he flopped his legs heavily over Harry’s lap when he sat down. “What?”

Draco could have kicked himself for starting the conversation, but he had to at least give it a shot. He let Harry drink his coffee for a moment before he sighed. “Can I go with you to Spain?” he asked, embarrassment in his voice.

Harry blinked and turned his head to look at him for a moment. “Oh, er...” He shifted in obvious discomfort. “Look, I’m taking Gin so we can try to make this thing work. It’s not that I don’t want you to get out of the house or anything, I just…it wouldn’t be a good idea, I think. I’m sorry. I’d say yes if it wasn’t part of the whole last-ditch effort thing.”

He did genuinely look sorry. Draco had expected such an answer, but he hadn’t thought it would hurt to ask. It had, as it turned out; fear and disappointment crushed in around him, and he swallowed hard, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. “I know,” he said quietly, and he crumpled his letter from Pansy on accident as he tightened his hand around the parchment. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s all right. I mean, you’re probably going to be drowned in letters by the time we get back.” He could hear Harry trying to reassure him, but he just shook his head.

“I don’t understand why you’re running off for a week when this campaign just started. Couldn’t it wait just a little longer? Please?” He hated to hear himself begging, but new developments in the case were happening every day, and he was genuinely terrified that this would amp up M.’s efforts to find him. How hard would it be to figure out that he was staying with one of the Aurors in the department, even if he wasn’t licensed officially?

Harry sighed, and Draco closed his eyes. “I wish it could, but I have my licensing exams in the middle of June, and I have a week before revision courses start. I’ve got to take the chance now or I won’t be able to take her until September.” Draco felt a hand on his, loosening his fingers around the letter, and he let Harry take it from him. “I’m really sorry. I’m going to be working on it, okay? Even in Spain, I’m going to be working on this on the damned beach if I have to. Do you want Ron to check in on you? I’m sure he will if I ask. I’m not sure that Kingsley will let you be alone for a week even if it is in my flat.”

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. “No, I don’t want fucking Weasley dropping in on me.” He set his coffee aside and felt sick to his stomach. “Just forget I even asked, Potter. It was fucking stupid.”

Draco was absolutely mortified at himself. He had been raised to be stronger than this, but bravery was never really his strongest suit. He had spent much of his teenaged years living in fear of the Dark Lord, even as he served beneath him. His fingers strayed over the Dark Mark on his left forearm, tracing the curve of the snake and bringing back the memory of his Marking ceremony.

_“Draco, it’s time.”_

_He opened his eyes in the darkness of night, eyelids heavy with sleep, and he saw his mother’s drawn face above him. “Mother, what?” he asked, and he stared at her. The realisation of what Narcissa must have meant crashed over him and he curled his toes in the sheets. “Y-yes, yes of course.”_

_He didn’t have a choice in this._

_Lucius was still in prison, and if he wanted to help his family, to spur the Dark Lord to regard them favourably and think them an irreplaceable asset, then Draco had to take the Dark Mark and swear to help infiltrate Hogwarts at any cost. His mother dressed him quickly, staring at him all the while as though he was the most beautiful, precious thing to her. “I’ll be okay, mum. I can do this for us. I’ll do anything he asks, and when Potter’s dead, it’ll be okay again.”_

_Narcissa smiled, and she touched his face, not saying anything. Draco felt abruptly too old for the body he had. He followed her through the Manor, to the ballroom where the Dark Lord was surrounded by Death Eaters and waiting for him._

_**I have to do this. I have to do this, or he’ll kill all three of us.** _

_He couldn’t remember the oath he’d spoken, but the memory of blinding pain and the urge to scream, the necessity of his silence, was something he knew he’d never forget._

That night, he’d felt his childhood slip away from him, ripped from his skin; now, lying on Potter’s couch and hunted like an animal, he felt like a little boy again. He was helpless against this. He couldn’t run, and now he was going to be left on his own for nearly a week. He felt his breath coming too quickly, could feel pure panic weighing down on his chest as surely as he’d have felt an elephant sitting there, and he fanned himself with his hand. He couldn’t breathe.

He was going to die. Potter and Weasley were going to leave, and he was going to die, and there wasn’t going to be anyone who would even care. His parents were dead. There wasn’t going to be a body to bury beside them. He’d thought Potter and Weasley cared for him at least somewhat, since they were constantly with him, but clearly they didn’t give a damn about him.

This was it. He was just going to fucking die when they left, because he may as well have had a bull’s-eye painted onto his face. He rolled onto his side and gulped for air, sweating.

“Hey, hey.” He felt hands grasping at his sides, pulling him up, and he dimly registered that Potter had sat him up and was holding onto him. “Breathe.” He wrapped his hands in Harry’s shirt, tightening his fingers around the fabric and pressing his nails so hard against his palms even through the cloth that he thought he might be bleeding. There was a hand on the back of his head, and he was hiding his face in a warm shoulder, nauseated and dizzy.

“I’m—I’m going to puke,” he choked out.

“You are definitely not going to puke, Malfoy, I swear to God.” Harry’s voice was quiet against his ear, and he squeezed his eyes shut to try to obey. The hand on his back was rubbing between his shoulders, and he tried to relax beneath it. “You’re safe, all right? You’re going to be fine. Nothing’s going to get you here. We’re going to solve it and you can go home and fuck, we can go to fucking Spain in September, all three of us, if you want. It’s going to be over soon, and you’re going to be all right, and no one’s going to get you.”

Draco made a sound in his throat that was something between a whimper and a dry heave, and he tried to find something to focus on, something with which he could fall into rhythm. Harry was breathing close to his ear, and he tried to match his breaths; fingers in his hair made him close his eyes, and he slowly loosened his grip on Harry’s shirt. “Promise me,” he whispered raggedly, still not entirely sure that he wasn’t going to puke his coffee all over the both of them.

There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation. “I promise, Draco.”

Draco sucked in a deep breath, the deepest he’d been able to take in as many minutes, and he tried to ground himself, to get a feel of where he was. He wasn’t in the Manor or in a faceless stranger’s grasp; he was sitting on Harry’s couch, clutching at his shirt and listening to his heartbeat. He opened his eyes and stared at the sight of his pale fingers loosely gripping Harry’s shirt, felt a rough hand on the back of his neck, and he breathed a sigh between them. His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry.”

Harry scoffed near his ear, still holding him much closer than Draco would have expected him to hold anyone but Ginny. “Don’t. Just catch your breath.”

Draco nodded his head, not trusting himself to lift his head from Harry’s shoulder for several moments. When he did, he sucked in another deep breath and gathered the courage to look at Harry; he was certain that if he did, he would find some derision or scorn written on his face. Instead, he saw nothing but concern. Potter looked absolutely ridiculous, his hair mussed from sleep and his chin in desperate need of a shave, but his green eyes read nothing but absolute worry, and Draco felt his stomach drop with a renewed surge of nausea.

Harry really did care; it was in every facet of his expression. What was worse, Draco wanted him to care, to _really_ care, if he was all right. A hand was still rubbing the back of his neck, and he felt a sudden surge of shame that didn’t quite fit the situation until he realised precisely why he’d felt it in the first place.

He was supposed to be their friend.

He wasn’t supposed to want Harry Potter so suddenly, so completely, that he couldn’t look away from him. He wasn’t meant to have a sudden and savage desire to usurp Ginny’s place either in the household or even on the trip to Spain; however, it hit him so painfully that he must have looked like he was relapsing into his panic attack, since he was seized about the arms and pulled back to Harry’s shoulder. “It really _is_ all right, Draco.”

He expected the sudden attraction to abate when they broke eye contact, but it didn’t; on the contrary, when he was held against Harry’s shoulder and pressed much too close, he thought that he might surely die of it. It had been so long since he had felt any sort of attraction for anyone, since he’d had the time to even consider that sort of thing, and he hated himself for it. He was an ex-Death Eater on probation with the Ministry, an unemployed layabout without any concrete plans for the future and a high likelihood of failure in light of his past. He was not an attractive option for a partner.

He had no right to any of this.

His heart thudded mutinously in his chest, and he let his eyes close. “It’s not,” he said, his stomach clenching. “Nothing about any of this is all-fucking-right.” He didn’t receive a response to that, just a gentle pat between the shoulders.

The bedroom door opened again, and Draco heard Ginny’s footsteps on the rug. “Harry? Draco, are you all right?” There was that concern that she wouldn’t have had if she’d known that he was struggling to reason with himself that Harry couldn’t possibly be something worth having. He considered asking her to hex him on the spot and end all of it; his hands fisted more tightly into Harry’s shirt and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“He’s just having a panic attack. He’ll be all right.” Harry’s voice was soft and close, and the hair on the back of Draco’s neck stood up. “Will you get him a Calming Draught from the washroom?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” There was a moment of silence where Harry was touching his hair and Draco wanted to crawl into a hole and die of shame. Then, Ginny was there and she was pouring the draught down his throat, and he wondered for a moment if he didn’t love them both. “Draco, this whole thing’s going to be over and we’re going to be laughing, yeah? Don’t worry.” He opened his eyes and saw her smiling at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back even as the potion tingled in his stomach.

He felt his muscles relaxing, and he exhaled heavily as Harry lay him back on the couch and put the remote in his hand. “Thanks.” Draco’s voice was weaker than he’d have liked, but he was extremely grateful for the potion and the care with which they were handling him.

He didn’t deserve them, whether they were friends or lovers.

 

*

“You really need to step it up, Parkinson.”

Pansy groaned quietly and ran her hands back through her hair, staring down at her letters from Draco. “I’m trying, okay?” she insisted, her back stinging and making her grit her teeth. She’d been beaten with a whip so severely that she’d passed out; once M. had woken her, she had been offered no potions or any such thing to relieve the pain.

She had expected Draco to break by now. She was playing with his insecurities in every letter, poking at his Auror detail, talking about their friends and how much she really missed him, and trying to turn him against those who were trying to help him. Unfortunately, he seemed to be rather content to stay where he was.

M. was becoming more than a little impatient with their progress, and she was terrified that she wouldn’t make it another week this way. They couldn’t put Tracking Charms on their owls; Draco had already told her that his Auror detail had put up all sorts of fancy wards to keep something so obvious from coming through. That did not, however, mean that something subtle might not make it through. “Is there some sort of potion that we could use to induce…something? He’s got to be truly losing it to give anyone his location.” She was simply thinking out loud; she didn’t anticipate that Draco would trust anything anyone sent him.

He shouldn’t be trusting her with so much as a single letter; still, to be Slytherin was to be self-preserving, and Pansy wasn’t willing to die for anyone. She had no doubt that she was going to die if something didn’t change very soon. Her eyes turned to the door to the dungeons, to the distant sound of sobbing, and she felt sick to her stomach.

_Draco, please tell me where you are. I love you, but I can’t die like this._

“I suggest you check the library, if you’re looking to induce madness in him. Do keep it gentle, though, won’t you? I don’t want any permanent damage done; where would the value be in him then?”

Pansy wanted to vomit. “Perhaps a touch of madness would make him more open to what you have planned with them.” She screamed loudly when a hand came down sharply across her abused back, and she felt blood drip from the previously-clotted wounds.

“You’ll leave that to me. _Go_.”

 

*

Harry was as relaxed as anyone could expect to be as he lounged on the beach in Spain, Ginny lying at his side in a bikini that was wholly scandalous. He stretched his toes in the sun, idly noting that they were completely covered in sand, and he smiled. It should be illegal to be so comfortable.

They had been in Spain for three days, and they were happy. They were blessed with hot weather, and Harry already had an impressive tan line where his swimming shorts fell about his hips. Ginny was gifted with a whole new set of freckles, and he thought that she was particularly beautiful lying next to him on the sand. She looked as though she were born to be on the beach, her hair curly in the salty air and her brown eyes masked by enormous sunglasses. The water was a bit colder than he’d have liked, but it made a good contrast with their hot skin when the sun was too much to bear.

The case was never far from his mind, however, and the files were lying in the sand next to him. They taunted him; he was missing something that M. just hadn’t conveyed in correspondence even with the new baiting campaign in the Prophet. He tried not to think about it too much, knowing that it annoyed Ginny, and so he’d set it aside for the moment to simply enjoy the sun with her.

“How d’you reckon Malfoy’s doing?” she asked, having seen his glance at the folder. “He hasn’t tried to Floo the room or anything, so he must be okay, right?”

Harry felt a surge of affection for her. She was able to put aside years and years of fighting to become friends with his old rival, to be worried for his wellbeing, and that showed a strength of character that he could both sympathise with and admire. He reached over to take her hand. “I’m sure he’s fine. If he needs something, he’ll let us know. We’re just here for two more days.”

Ginny laughed, and she rolled onto her belly, sliding off her sunglasses and looking at him with a bright smile. “I expect he’ll be like a dog when we get back. He won’t have realised how long we’ve been gone, and he’ll have torn something up in a fit of separation anxiety.”

The image was one that made Harry grin at her, and he shrugged his shoulders. “I told him we were coming back!” he protested playfully. “I even put toys in his crate.”

“How very kind of you,” she said, and she pushed the bottle of lotion into his hands. “Will you put some on my back? I’m worried I’m going to start burning at this point.”

Harry nodded his head and crouched over her hips, squirting a handful of lotion into his palm and rubbing his hands together before putting them to her back and rubbing her shoulders. “I was pretty worried after his panic attack the other day. I’ve only seen him like that once before, and I almost killed him that time. I thought it might not be the best course of action to, you know, do that again.” The scene in the bathroom in their sixth year hadn’t exactly been his proudest moment as a wizard. “I’m worried that he’ll do something drastic if it happens again and no one is there to see to him. I tried to get him to let me send Ron over, but he wasn’t going for it.”

Ginny shrugged her shoulders lightly under his hands. “You should Floo him and tell him to anyway. Draco isn’t exactly stable, is he?” She shook her head. “It’s stupid that we’re even having this conversation. It’s _Draco Malfoy_ , and I keep asking myself why the hell I care so much.”

Harry hummed in agreement. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I think I care so much because if I solved this case, it would really make my career. This would be something that they pointed to if they were ever talking about making me department head.” That wasn’t entirely true, he knew, but it was what he was telling himself about the whole thing because the truth was inconvenient.

The fact of the matter was, Harry liked Draco Malfoy. He was an obnoxious prat, that was true, but he was also funny and argued with the television. He liked to challenge himself to do things that he admired others for doing, and he had been through so much only to come out on the other side as clean as anyone with a Dark Mark could. He was a good person, under all of his bluster, and there was some injured innocence in the way he’d looked at Harry during his panic attack. It was enough to make anyone want to soothe his frazzled nerves by any means necessary.

That, however, was inconvenient for Harry, because he had a particular weakness for damaged things. Ginny was a prime example. She was a strong woman, as strong as anyone, but she was a war veteran, too. She’d come closer to Voldemort than most in only her first year at Hogwarts, and Harry knew that something had died within her in the Chamber of Secrets. What was most frightening about that knowledge was that it came paired with the fact that Ginny’s injuries were well-bandaged with time and she was hardened.

Sometimes, he wondered if that was something that fuelled his waning interest.

He knew it was waning, and it frightened him. He could be happy with her, he thought, but it wouldn’t be comparable to the happiness of other couples he’d known. Ron and Hermione were a sight to behold, and Molly and Arthur could be an advertisement for marriage; Harry and Ginny, however, were nothing like that. He knew that his love for her was not unconditional, and he knew that her own love for him suffered the same footnote. It almost felt like settling sometimes.

Harry didn’t know if he wanted to settle for anything anymore. He had settled for so much in his life until this point that he wanted to know what it was like to really and truly want something. He imagined that he would know it when he felt it, a burst of happiness that echoed that which followed the death of Voldemort, or the moment in which he realised that he had some family left in Sirius Black. He could be happy like that with another person, like Ron and Hermione were.

Of course, none of it meant that he didn’t love Ginny Weasley. He did love her. He loved the way she smelled of Quidditch and the way she curled up against him as she went to sleep. He loved so much about her, but there was something missing there. During the trip thus far, he’d heavily considered telling her that he wasn’t going to ask her to marry him in the foreseeable future, but he didn’t want to spoil it for her; besides, he thought that she knew. There was some distant sadness in her eyes even when she smiled at him, and it screamed at him.

_This is really it, isn’t it? One last hurrah._

She deserved more than someone who was settling for something resembling true happiness with her, and he hoped that she knew it. He wondered how long they would last on their return to London, and he wondered how angry her family would be with him. Hopefully they would weather the storm well, because they were the only family he knew. He traced her spine from the nape of her neck to the line of her bikini bottom, then leaned over to kiss her shoulder. “I love you, Gin,” he said against the warm skin, smelling the lotion on her skin.

“I love you, too. Get off me, you’re blocking the sun.”

 

 

Draco was not doing well.

The first night had been fine; Harry and Ginny had left soon after he’d consumed the Calming Draught, and most of the day was spent in a tingly stupor on the couch with the television providing quiet background noise. The second day had been worse; he’d started drinking soon after lunch, staring blankly out the window past the stream of owls bringing his mail from Prophet readers. Drinking had been a terrible mistake, given the nature of his epiphany the day before.

He was hopelessly attracted to Harry Potter. It was the first time he’d had enough to drink that it’d made him needy, and he _craved_ Harry’s presence. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that he’d have had the courage (or idiocy) to do anything about it, but he’d wanted him there. Fantasies the likes of which he’d not had since he was kicked in the arse by puberty played behind his eyelids every time they closed. Most of them didn’t even make any sense.

He imagined Harry in the shower, Harry taking off his glasses and grinning in a way that no one should be allowed to grin, Harry fighting with him and getting so angry that he shoved him over the arm of the couch and fucked him until he was screaming, Harry smiling lazily at him in the morning and saying that it would be all right, _just another moment and we’ll get up_. The reasoning behind these fantasies was lost to Draco; he hadn’t previously been attracted to any men, though the idea certainly wasn’t repulsive.

His inner teenaged-Draco was horrified at the images going through his head. Hunted, developing-alcoholic adult Draco, on the other hand, hadn’t been able to keep his cock out of his hand for most of the day.

The third day, Draco woke up with the worst hangover he’d ever had. He rolled out of bed and barely made it to the bathroom in time, leftover alcohol in his stomach tasting like paint thinner on the way back up, and he lay his cheek against the cold toilet seat. “Ugh,” he announced to no one, and he considered calling for Ginny to fetch him a Hangover Potion from the medicine cabinet.

He remembered that he’d taken the last one midday the day before, and no one was there. He was alone.

He took a cold shower to revive himself, his head pounding, and he stumbled naked into the kitchen after to do the only thing he could think of to make himself feel better. He shakily poured a generous shot of vodka, and he stared at it for a moment, convinced he would die if he took it. “Hair of the dog, Draco. Hair of the fucking dog,” he breathed, steeling his courage, and he threw it back.

It was no small miracle that he kept it down, with all the gagging that accompanied it. He opened the kitchen window to get some fresh air, groaning in self-inflicted misery, and he lay his head against the window frame. It made him sick to think of Ginny and Harry in Spain, frolicking on the beach in the sun and sand and completely oblivious to his personal hell in London.

The new Daily Prophet had already been delivered; he took it in hand when he wrenched himself away from the window and headed for the couch. The sitting room was an enormous mess from his bender the day before—there were used tissues, empty and half-consumed bottles of booze strewn over the rug, and he had managed to scatter his maps everywhere. He saw with a twinge of disgust that his morning vomit hadn’t been the first, and he cast a quick _Scourgify_ on the rug before he flung himself back down on the couch and squinted at the paper.

Before he could read the front page headline, however, an owl flew through his window that he recognised, and he caught the scroll that dropped onto his sore stomach. He managed a faint smile when he saw that it was from Pansy, and he abandoned his paper to open it.

_Dear Draco,_

_I can’t bear it any longer. The town I’ve been visiting is the most dreadful place on the planet, even if it is particularly green and the Catholic ruins are interesting. There is only so much time someone can stare at a couple of ruined crosses before they go entirely mad._

_It took about fifteen minutes, if you’re wondering._

_So, I’m in London. I travelled here this morning, and I forgot just how much I missed Diagon Alley. I’ve eaten three ice creams—one for you and two for myself, of course—at Fortescue’s, and I don’t really know if I can take you being a media scandal for much longer because I want to see you. I don’t know why I miss your stupid face so much, but I’ve been dreaming a lot about when we were kids and I think that has something to do with it._

_I miss roaming the Manor gardens with you over the summer. Your mum kept the loveliest roses, and we were just dead-set on destroying all her work! I wish I had gone to the funeral, Draco. I’m so sorry I didn’t, but I couldn’t face it. They were important to me, too, but I couldn’t bear to see the look on your face._

_I love you, you prat. Not like that, of course, but I love you all the same._

_It is killing me that I can’t help you through this M. thing. I wish that you would tell your Aurors to let me in so I could sit with you. We could plot up a hundred different ways to give them the slip and run to Brazil or something. We were just meant to be tan. You could learn to surf and grow your hair long, and I could have a following of beach boys trying to knock me up and run._

_That sounds like the life compared to what we’ve been doing, doesn’t it?_

_Please talk to your Aurors. If you’re in London, I want to see you. I’ll bring you an ice cream._

_Love,_

_Pansy_

Draco felt a horrible pang of longing, and he bit down on his lip. None of this was fair. He wanted to see Pansy, he really did, and he’d been on his own for days. He picked up the Daily Prophet again, curling his toes against the uncomfortable, squirmy feeling in his stomach and the relentless, horrible pounding in his head.

The day’s game of cat-and-mouse was focused on M., who had written back to Kingsley’s previous taunt with a simple photograph of Draco sleeping innocently in his bed at the Manor. Words in black in were scrawled across his exposed throat: _Draco, the apple is round and red and there is nothing so wonderful in the world as the taste of its flesh on your tongue, but power and freedom come at the cost of innocence._

Draco’s eyes widened, and he stared at the photograph in horror. M. had never addressed him personally in the letters; this was it. He was making his final play.

Draco was fucked. He flung himself up to look out the window, nearly colliding with an owl in the same movement. He gripped the windowsill and stared wildly at the street, staring at every pedestrian; any one of them could be M. staring back at him. Too-familiar panic rose in his chest, and he skittered to the fireplace to throw in a handful of Floo powder and choke out the address of Harry and Ginny’s hotel room. He thrust his head through.

No one was there. Clothes were strewn about the room and the window was open; he could smell the sea air, and he knew that he was lucky if they’d be back at all until nightfall. He pulled back through the Floo and then stared at it, considering for a moment the possibility of calling on Kingsley Shacklebolt.

No.

No, the Auror Department all wanted him to be caught.

Draco paced wildly around the room, feeling his breath coming faster and faster as sweat broke out on his forehead. His hands shook as his anxiety crashed over him, in one moment manageable and in the next so completely crushing that he didn’t know what was controlling him as he grabbed the quill from his desk and scrawled a simple note.

 _Bring a Hangover Potion._ The handwriting didn’t even look like his own. He scribbled the address beneath the message, and he sent it back with Pansy’s owl before he collapsed onto the bed and fisted handfuls of his own hair.

Pansy would make it better.

Pansy would make everything better.

 

 

M. smoothed down Pansy’s skirt over her legs, admiring herself in the mirror of the Leaky Cauldron. Pansy Parkinson had a rather unfortunate face, she thought, but she looked great otherwise; it was a shame that she wasn’t a Pureblood, or she’d have made great breeding stock for the collection. The girl had been crying all morning when she’d cut her hair, whimpering for Draco’s forgiveness for her treachery, but M. had been unmoved. Most Slytherins she had known in her lifetime had been more interested in their own lives over anyone else’s, even when their old friends were involved.

If today went as planned, then she would Obliviate the girl and let her go. There was no need for senseless murder, and Pansy had been extremely useful. Draco was a regular correspondent, and M. figured that the Auror Department would want to keep him close. It didn’t get much closer than London. Shacklebolt was an extremely predictable person—he was proud, and he was easily read—and M. didn’t doubt her judgement on Draco’s location.

She could have made the trip as herself, being generally unknown to the London wizarding community, but going as Pansy meant that she could play with Draco. The thrill of the hunt was more about the chase than the capture.

Parkinson’s owl fluttered onto her table, and she sipped her coffee before she untied the scroll tied to its leg. The note attached was short, and it was absolutely everything that she needed. She left a single Galleon on the table—much more than was needed, but it was going to be a good day—and quickly strode out of the Leaky Cauldron.

 

 

Draco was considering puking again when there was a quiet knock at the door, and he pushed himself up from the couch. “Coming,” he called weakly, and he glanced at himself in the mirror to make sure he’d buttoned his shirt correctly before he went to the door and opened it.

Pansy Parkinson was a sight for sore eyes. He stared at her for a moment, and he stepped back from the door to let her in before closing it behind her and turning to lean back against it. “Pansy,” he whispered, and he stepped forward to wrap her in his arms. She was warm and soft and familiar, and he buried his face in her neck.

“Draco, you prat, are you slobbering on me?” she asked against his ear, and she pushed the requested Hangover Potion into his hand. She didn’t seem too angry, though, because she hugged him right back afterwards. “You look awful. Have you been drinking all this on your own? Draco, I—are those tissues…no. No, I don’t want to know.”

Draco sniffled into her shoulder and kissed her right on the cheek in thanks for the potion, which he tipped back a moment later and swallowed in one. Almost immediately, he could feel his headache beginning to ease, and he moaned with relief. “You’re a fucking saint.” He waved his hand dismissively at the mess. “Potter can deal with it when he gets back. That’s what he gets for leaving me by myself.” He went back to the couch and cleared a space for her to sit down; when she joined him, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and leaned against her.

“I can’t believe he left you on your own, with that saviour complex of his. I figured he’d have you chained to his side.” Pansy was looking at him with slightly widened eyes, an expression he’d so rarely seen on her, and he couldn’t help but smirk. “I see. You didn’t want to go?”

Draco scoffed. “Like I want to go on vacation with them. I don’t get any damned time by myself.” He wasn’t about to admit, after all, that he had begged to join them and had clung to Potter like he was some sort of life raft; Pansy would have been horrified at his lack of decorum. “Besides, they only had one room booked. I have to listen to their pale, boring sex enough without being in the same room. Gryffindors are disgusting, Pans. Absolutely fucking disgusting.”

He watched Pansy look around the flat before her eyes came to rest on the mess on the table. “I don’t doubt it,” she said matter-of-factly. “What’s all this you have here?”

Draco pulled his arm from around her, feeling better every second, and he leaned forward to drag the table closer. He knocked off some tissues and an empty wine box before he tried to make some sort of order in the stacks of papers. “Oh, you know. Auror stuff. He’s trying to figure out where M. is, and I figured I ought to help since I’m the one being fucked with. This M. guy is fucking ridiculous. How do you keep a menagerie of that size without someone noticing? Anyway, these are my notes on the whole thing. I’ve been working on some Arithmancy based on key words in old clues.”

Pansy leaned forward to look at it, and Draco watched her pick up one of his maps. She squinted at it, and he smiled at the familiar look on her face; she always wore that expression when she was very concentrated on something. “Hmm. Well, what do you know?”

Draco sighed. “He’s got to be somewhere around Birr in Ireland. They found a dragon fang in Kilnaborris Bog and there’s been plenty of mention of Birr in the past. The whole area around here—” He drew a circle with his fingertip on the map. “—is suspect, I think. I’ve given up on it while Potter’s on holiday, though. I’ve been too sloshed to do anything but stare at the telly, to be honest with you.” He smiled apologetically at her.

Pansy shrugged at him. “If I were going to hide, I’d do it in plain sight like Hogwarts does. Make it look like something else and no one will think of it as anything other than what it looks like.” She reached out and touched his hair, and he blinked at her. She hadn’t touched him like that since they were very young, and he searched her eyes for the meaning behind it. “You know, Draco, you really are something.”

“Er, thanks.” He smiled in such a way that he meant to placate her, and he gave her the once-over. “You’re not looking so bad yourself. Was it really so bad with Blaise? He must be missing you pretty badly when you’re looking better than you have in…well, ever, really.”

She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll be honest with you, Draco. Blaise was only ever second-best, in my mind.” She slid her hand down his arm, and he leaned back from her.

“…Pansy, are you all right?” he asked quietly. She hadn’t been romantically interested in him in years, and it wasn’t like her to be quite so forward with anyone. He could be wrong, he supposed, as he’d never been alone with her when they were old enough to know what two people did on their own, but it didn’t seem like her.

She laughed, and it sounded odd to his ears. “Don’t be ridiculous; I’m fine.” She took his hand. “I wish you were off probation and allowed to leave this damned place. I really would like to go to Venezuela with you. We could have one hell of a holiday on our own.”

“Brazil,” Draco corrected her. “You wanted to go to Brazil.”

She waved her hand dismissively and went back to looking at Draco’s work on the table. She spied the Prophet and pulled it over to read the day’s message, and a smile touched her lips. “Look at you. You’re very sweet when you sleep. I ought to clip this and wave it around in front of your kids one day.”

_Sweet?_

Draco stared at her, looking her over from head to toe, and he tried to subtly go for his wand; he didn’t find it in his trousers, however, and his eyes scanned the room for it. He cleared his throat, standing up. “I need to go to the loo. Hangover Potions, you kn—”

“Draco, just a moment.” She set down the paper and looked up at him, and she took him by the hand to pull herself up as well. “I have something I want to show you.” She laced their fingers, and Draco felt nauseated all over again.

“You aren’t—”

“No.”

 

 

Kingsley was sitting at his desk in the Auror Department, staring at the Prophet from that morning. It was the first time that Malfoy had been directly addressed since they’d begun this game, and it bothered him more than he was letting on to the other Aurors. M. wasn’t usually such a bold man, preferring subtlety to blatant call-outs.

He was beginning to think that he was misjudging M. on a lot of things.

It didn’t make him feel any better that Harry and Ginny had gone to Spain for a few days. While he agreed that Harry needed the holiday from Malfoy, he wasn’t sure that it could have come at a worse time. Malfoy did, however, seem concerned with his own self-preservation, and Kingsley wasn’t all that concerned that he would do anything to compromise his safety.

He was getting well and truly tired of working on M.’s case. It was taking up too much resources that the department really couldn’t afford to spare. There were whispers of old Death Eaters holing up in Romania, and there had been a disappearance there just last week. While that was something the Romanian Ministry of Magic should really take care of, the British Ministry was far superior in terms of manpower and sheer ability. They should help.

There had been a number of scouting missions to Ireland in response to old clues, but they hadn’t found anything even in the new material. Kingsley felt twenty years younger, like a new Auror assigned on his first big case again, and that wasn’t a feeling that he liked. He was proud of his experience; it had given him a honed instinct that newer Aurors couldn’t be expected to possess. This case was the thorn in his side.

He had recently been discussing with the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement the controlled capture of Malfoy that he had been planning as a last resort. They had agreed that it would be best to put the best team together for it and bait M. to London to fetch his prize only to be struck down by the full force of the combined departments; Kingsley was still choosing his Aurors. He thought that he would include Potter on the team as well, since he was so invested in the case. He deserved it.

He yawned against the back of his hand and cast the _Tempus_ charm; it was entirely too early to be so weary. With a stretch, Kingsley stood up from his desk and made for the door of his office, stepping outside a moment later and pouring himself a cup of coffee. Ron Weasley was passing, and Kingsley nodded to him. “Weasley, I expect a full report on your scouting mission with Williamson by the end of the—”

_SCREE!_

_SCREE!_

“What the _fuck_ is—”

_SCREE!_

Kingsley dropped his coffee mug on the cheap carpet, distantly registering that it shattered in his wake.

 

 

Harry was laughing as he ushered Ginny back into their room, completely covered in sand. “This is completely mental. I’m going to have sand up my ass for _months_.” She had buried him in the sand with a flick of her wand in response to him dropping a harmless sea slug on top of her head as they walked in the surf, and it had taken an hour to dig himself out of it. She had laughed all the while, and he was monumentally itchy with a desperate need for a shower.

“Serves you right!” she giggled, and she grabbed him by the hand, pulling him to the washroom and turning on the shower. They regarded one another for a moment, and Harry reached out to pull her into a kiss only to be expertly avoided. “Oh no, you don’t! Rinse off first, Harry Potter, and then you can do as you like.” She left him alone in the room, and he leapt immediately into the shower.

It was, possibly, the fastest shower of his life despite the fact that he had sand in his ears, and he emerged dripping without grabbing a towel. With a predatory smile, he stalked into the bedroom, eyeing her as she relaxed back against the pillows on the bed; he put his knees on the mattress and made to crawl over her. “You are in _so_ much trouble, Miss Weasley,” he whispered, eyes alight.

Ginny grinned up at him and ran her fingers through his wet hair, pulling him down for a sudden and firm kiss. He was laughing against her lips, and his hands pulled at her bathing suit strings as he settled down on top of her. She was so soft against him, and it felt so very familiar and comfortable that he couldn’t help but want her in that moment; she had, after all, been his partner for years, and she knew just how to get him going.

She set right to it, dragging her nails across his scalp and down over his neck to his back just firmly enough to raise welts in his skin. Gooseflesh rose behind her touch, and he shuddered as she flung one of her legs around his waist to pull his hips flush against hers. He fisted a hand in her hair and pulled it back, exposing her throat, and he pulled his mouth from hers to scrape his teeth against her neck. “Do you have any idea what I’m going to—”

There was a sudden crackle of fire on the hearth next to the bed, and they only had a moment to fling the blanket over themselves before Kingsley Shacklebolt came rushing through. “Harry, Ginny, get dressed,” he commanded, panic in his voice.

Harry was instantly on alert, and he grabbed his dressing gown from next to the bed, pulling it over his shoulders and crawling out from between the sheets. Ginny looked terrified. “What’s happened?” he demanded. “Is the Ministry under attack?”

Kingsley shook his head, and something cold settled in Harry’s gut. “Malfoy’s gone.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story continues in Chapter 3. :)


	3. The Thrill of the Hunt: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Draco Malfoy is named the last surviving pureblooded wizard in Europe, a mysterious underworld trader and collector known as M. takes an interest in adding him to a true world-class collection of dangerous magical creatures. Harry Potter must juggle the last of his Auror training, a failing relationship with Ginny Weasley, and a growing issue with alcoholism while managing to keep Draco from being captured and trying to follow a decades-old trail which will lead to the identity and location of M. before it's too late.
> 
>  **Book Featured:** Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

***Part Three***

_There is nothing that fear and hope does not permit men to do._

_Luc de Clapiers_

Draco woke up with a sharp gasp, moving without seeing and crashing against metal bars. He hissed in pain and put his hand to his head, trying to feel if there was any blood; he felt briefly lucky when his hand came away dry. That sense of luck quickly drained away when he realised what he had done.

He had given away his position.

He had single-handedly made months of work absolutely useless when he had told Pansy where he was—well, who he thought was Pansy—and now he was in the dark and, evident from the throbbing spot on his head, in some sort of cage. He had been captured.

He ran his hands over himself, feeling that he was still in his own clothes; there was straw beneath him, as though he were some sort of animal that would need cleaning up after, and it didn’t feel half as clean as he would have liked. Terror thrummed deep in his chest, and he wrapped his arms around the bars. “ _Let me the fuck out of here!_ ” he shrieked into the darkness. His blood ran cold when he was immediately answered by an inhuman snarl, and he fell silent in fear that whatever was out there wasn’t in a cage.

There was a light above him and to the left, and he turned his head to see a shadowed figure moving down stairs from the house above. The sound of a cord being pulled precluded a sudden flooding of light in the room, and Draco shrank back against the other side of his cage at the sight of a smartly-dressed woman in her fifties approaching his prison. “Good,” she said. “You’re awake. See that you don’t make a lot of noise; they get upset when something startles them.” She cast her eyes past Draco, and he turned his head to look.

He had never seen such a collection of creatures in his life. There was a massive aquarium containing a mermaid with long, spindly claws and twin tails, a runespoor writhing and fighting against itself in the bottom of its cage, a horrifying, five-legged creature covered in auburn hair that he thought he recognised as a Quintaped, a manticore lying in the dirt with a goat in his hands to which he was softly singing while his scorpion’s tail hovered threateningly over his shoulder, and a cage filled with jewel-bright dragon hatchlings. There was also, to his complete confusion, a human woman curled in on herself in her own cage, apparently sleeping. A number of other cages dotted the room, filled with creatures he could not hope to name, and he thought briefly of Rubeus Hagrid before his eyes snapped back to his captor.

“M.” He spoke the moniker with no small bit of venom, and he gave a slight start when she laughed. “They think you’re a man.” He didn’t know why it was the first thing he said to her, and he regretted it because she looked suddenly and incredibly irritated.

“Of course they do. Men cannot fathom the idea of a woman having the guile to lead them around by their noses for twenty years without being married to them first, can they?” she asked, and she shook her head. “No, why would a Ministry filled with hyper-inflated male egos think that a woman might be behind their shame? Come now, Draco Malfoy.” She leaned over and unlocked his cage, which was not tall enough to hold even a child standing, and she beckoned for him to leave it.

Draco hesitated for a moment, scanning her immediately for a wand or a weapon before he crawled on his hands and knees from the abysmally small pen, and he stood up in front of it with a groan. He must have been out for a while if his back was hurting so badly. He looked her over, then was struck with an idea.

“Madam, you are a particularly striking woman. Forgive me if I say so, but I think—”

“Shut up, Draco. You aren’t going to charm me into letting you go.” She smiled poisonously at him, and Draco closed his mouth, following her in silence as she led him up the stairs. “You have led me on quite a chase, Mister Malfoy. I don’t begrudge you that, however; I did have a great deal of _fun_ hunting you down. I hope you’re not too upset with me, but I did think that such a fine specimen as yourself deserved to be a part of something so grand.”

Draco scowled at her, feeling entirely drained of energy and too tired to fight her at the moment. “I am rather upset with you,” he hissed, and he looked around the house. It was very large, though not half as big as the Manor, and it was tastefully furnished. It reminded him of old pictures of his mother’s childhood home. “Why am I here, exactly?”

“Oh, _Draco_!” A familiar voice sounded from the next room, and he turned just in time to catch Pansy Parkinson flying into his arms. “Draco, Draco, I’m so sorry. I didn’t have a choice, she was going to k-kill me!” He wrapped around her, squeezing his eyes closed and gritting his teeth as Pansy sobbed into his shoulder with M. looking on as though nothing were amiss.

He understood the necessity of doing these sorts of things—after all, he had repaired the two-way cabinet in his sixth year and promised to kill Dumbledore—but he felt a twinge of anger with Pansy all the same. Potter and Ginny wouldn’t have given him up to save their own lives, he thought, but they _were_ Gryffindors and he wouldn’t have expected anything less from them. “It’s okay,” he ground out against her hair. “It’s not your fault.” It really wasn’t her fault that she’d been captured. He looked over to M. “Are you going to let her go now? You got what you wanted.”

M. nodded her head. “Of course. I keep my promises, Miss Parkinson. You must forgive me, though, I just— _Obliviate!_ —have to make sure that our affairs are in order.”

Draco swallowed convulsively when he felt Pansy go limp against him, and he shook his head, the edges of his vision going starry. “Please,” he whispered, though he didn’t know for what it was that he was begging. M. reached out to take Pansy from him, and he fell back against the wall to stare at her.

“Draco, I’m sending her home. Make yourself comfortable here while I take her out. There is, of course, no sense in trying to leave. The wards have already been attuned.” The woman smiled at him, and Draco thought that he was going to vomit.

M. left him alone in the house, and he twisted the doorknob to the basement—it was locked, and he didn’t have a wand—before he ran down the halls, trying every door. Most were locked to him, save for a single restroom and the dining hall; he screamed in frustration when he saw that the silverware was plastic and thus useless as potential weaponry. Every candlestick, every fixture, was fastened to a surface.

He felt like a rat in a cage as he scrabbled around the rooms available to him, testing everything, but M. was thorough in her securing of every object. He was overcome by such an overwhelming wave of hopelessness that he sank to the floor in the middle of the dining hall and stared at his hands.

 _You are a wizard, and you are completely useless here. Nothing you ever learned prepared you for this._ He cursed himself for not taking up wandless magic, for not learning how to defend himself when he was disarmed, and he leaned forward to press his forehead against the cool floor. “I’m so fucked,” he whispered to himself in disbelief. “I’m the stupidest fucking idiot on the planet.”

He wanted to cry, but he didn’t have the energy.

Harry and Ginny must have been informed by now, he thought, and he half-expected a team of Aurors to come bursting in the front door at any moment. He tried not to think about the fact that the Aurors had no idea where he might be; he knew there wasn’t a tracking charm on him save for what was standard for his probation, and he rubbed at his wrist. He wished that Harry had left on the charm he’d placed the night they went dancing that kept them close.

He wondered what Harry was doing, if he was bent over the table at home furiously studying his notes and writing nasty letters to M. himself, or if he had opted to stay on holiday until he was due home. He didn’t think Harry would stay on holiday, and he felt a pang of guilt as he realised that this was the second holiday of Harry’s he’d ruined with this mess. Ginny would be furious with him and Harry both, as though it were somehow Harry’s fault at all; had he been home with them, she would have locked herself in the bedroom or gone to her mother’s while he and Harry sat on the couch and drank themselves into oblivion.

More than anything, he wished that he was sitting on the couch with Harry, arguing with the television and laughing. Now, he wasn’t sure that he would ever see Harry again. He’d spent a decade hating him more than anything in the world, and now all he wanted to do was hide against his shoulder and apologise for all the trouble.

Draco shouted in surprise when a hand came down on his shoulder, and he threw himself back away from M., heart thudding wildly in his chest. “Pansy is back home, quite certain that she just spent a long holiday in France,” she said with a faint smile. “Now it’s just us. No one has to get hurt if you just do what I ask, Draco, and I don’t ask for half as much as you’re expecting. This could be downright pleasant for you, you know.”

“Wh-what are you asking me to do? When do _I_ get to go home?” His voice was shaking, just as were his hands, and he clenched them into fists in his lap.

M. blinked at him in confusion for a moment. “Home? Draco, you are home. You’re not going to be going anywhere. As for what I’m asking…for now, just get yourself acquainted with your new home. I don’t want to throw you back in your cage, you understand? I won’t have to if you don’t do anything stupid. You have a bedroom here. I assure you, you will be quite comfortable if you deserve it.”

Draco was biting down on his tongue so hard that it was bleeding. He wanted to lash out at her, to surge forward and strangle her so the wards would fall and he could go home, but he knew that he wasn’t in the right place to do it, not yet. He needed to get a feel for her and what she was capable of besides incredible cruelty before he could make his move against her.

His mind strayed to the girl he’d seen in the basement. “Who else is here?” he asked quietly, not looking at her.

“Oh, that’s Li Gui Ying. You’ll be getting to know her soon enough, don’t worry. She’s a rather nice girl, but she makes stupid decisions. I trust that you won’t take after her example.” M. rose to her feet. “And please, call me Madam, as you did earlier. I like your manners, Draco. Now, it is your job today to get comfortable here. I will let you out into the yard, but don’t bother trying to call for help. The wards don’t let sound through. Mind the cages out back if you go, and don’t touch the fence if you value your hands. Dinner is at sundown.”

Draco stared at her for a moment, trying to process all the information he was given. He was clearly meant to go outside, and he hesitated for several minutes before he nodded his head and rushed out the front door as fast as he could manage. The day was deceptively lovely, and it made him sick to his stomach that the sun could shine so brightly and the wind could so merrily carry the warmth of spring when he was being held prisoner.

A tall, stone fence surrounded the property, and Draco remembered that he wasn’t to touch it. There were a pair of Crups, looking no older than several weeks, wrestling in the grass, and Draco instinctively looked for their mother; he found her lounging in the shade of an ash tree with several more puppies suckling at her belly. He approached the playful pair in the yard and knelt down to pet one, sitting down hard when they turned their attentions to him and lavished him with affection.

It wasn’t fair. He had always wanted a Crup as a child, but his parents assured him that the Manor was no place for a dog of any sort. Every Christmas, he’d begged and begged, even coming to expect that they would eventually wait until he was sure that he would never have one only to surprise him with one on his birthday or as a reward for scholastic achievement. Finally, his father had caved and said that he would have one when he beat Potter at Quidditch.

He had finally beaten Potter at Quidditch, and his father was dead. He would never give him anything again, but he knew that he could have one of these puppies if he just asked. He finally had something he’d wanted all his life within his grasp, and it had come at a price he had not willingly paid. The white puppy with black ears stood on his thigh, trying to get to his face to lick it, and he took the fat little thing in his hands to hold it up. It squirmed and licked his cheeks, and he breathed out a sigh of misery.

There was a thunderous roar from behind the house, and he took both pups to their mother before he set off around the perimeter of the property; he wanted to see the source of the roar without getting close to it. When he rounded the back corner of the house, his eyes widened at the sight spread out before him.

M. was in possession of a zoo, or something like it. Dozens of dragons, some of which he knew were rumoured to be extinct, were chained to the ground, resting or standing off just out of reach of one another. The source of the roar didn’t seem to have come from the dragons, however; there was a creature that looked like a tiger with two heads that he could not have hoped to name, and the heads were snarling at one another. There were some creatures that he recognised—most notably the banshee woman who was curled in on herself near a tree with magical chains binding her ankles and a visible charm that had her silenced—and many that he did not.

Draco was a part of a zoo.

He was an animal.

The thought hadn’t struck him before then, not really. Yes, he knew that he was listed by name in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and he knew that a creature collector was after him of course, but it took looking upon these creatures and seeing the chains binding them even outdoors to realise that he was one of them. To M., he was not a person.

He was a possession, and the sight of those creatures who were bound in pairs made him feel weak in the knees; M. wasn’t just collecting and selling these creatures, she was _breeding_ them.

The unexplained presence of Li Gui Ying was suddenly unquestionable, and Draco fell to his knees in the grass, staring blankly at the banshee woman leaning against the tree. Her eyes fixed on him, and he silently pleaded with her to break the charm and shriek his name for all to hear; she looked impossibly sad, and she shook her head as though she had read his mind. “I’m not an animal,” he whispered. “I’m not. I’m not a _fucking animal_.”

Maybe he was.

 

*

Harry and Ginny had come home so quickly from Spain that he was afraid they’d left something behind in their rooms, but Ginny assured him that they hadn’t. The flat was empty, something it hadn’t been in what seemed like ages, and the first sight of the mess that greeted them made him sick to his stomach. Draco had been here, alone and terrified, and he had clearly worked himself into an anxious frenzy.

“We should have taken him with us. He wanted to go with us,” he said quietly, and Ginny made a quiet noise of assent at his side. “Why the fuck didn’t we just take him along?” None of this would be happening if Harry had just said yes.

Now Draco was in extreme danger, and he had no way to help him.

It didn’t even cross his mind that he should be upset because he had failed at his actual job, at being an Auror protecting someone. He felt like the most useless, horrible person in the world because he had let his friend down and now he was God-knew-where, held captive by someone that Harry was going to _murder_.

“Don’t touch anything that’s out of place, Gin,” he ordered, and he looked up as Ron and Williamson came into the flat through the front door. “You two, help me start looking for anything that might give us some sort of fucking clue.”

He could feel Kingsley’s eyes on him, and he clenched his fists at his sides before he leapt into action. He flung himself on the ground next to the coffee table, eyes scanning over every page Draco had left behind. Most of it was speculation that he’d seen before, nonsensical Arithmancy and numbers scrawled onto maps, and he smoothed his thumb over Draco’s handwriting. It was infuriating that it was so neat even when he was clearly agitated.

This was entirely his fault. He should have known that the look in Draco’s eyes the morning they left was something that wouldn’t bode well. He had done such a good job of keeping his worries about the case to himself when they worked together on it even though Draco wasn’t an Auror. He had never hinted at any anxiety about it before that morning; it had caught Harry off-guard to see Draco so frightened of everything like that. _I don’t understand why you’re running off for a week when this campaign just started. Couldn’t it wait just a little longer? Please?_ It could have waited.

Draco Malfoy had never begged him for anything in his life, and Harry had walked all over it. The only time he’d ever seen him so upset before was in their sixth year, in the bathroom, and he’d reacted all wrong then, too. If only he’d just listened, then maybe Dumbledore wouldn’t have died like he did, maybe Snape would still be alive, and now, Draco would be sitting with him on the beach in Spain carefully inspecting himself for unauthorised freckling. They would be pleasantly buzzed on tequila and laughing together, Harry and his friend.

He’d failed his _friend_.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered as he went through the papers, tossing away fanmail and hatemail alike into a separate pile. Ron settled down next to him, stacking that pile neatly and saying something that Harry didn’t quite catch about the Ministry. He ignored Ron, becoming increasingly frantic as he moved through the papers until a heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder.

“Mate,” Ron said firmly, and Harry jerked his head around to look at him. He could hear Ginny putting their things away in the bedroom. “This isn’t your fault. Kingsley already said everyone’s going to be on it now until we find him, and you’re going to start going scouting with us. I’ve got some ideas about it that I want to run by you at the office, yeah?”

Harry stared at him, shoulders slumped. “Right,” he said. “When are we going scouting? Today? I can go today once this mess is sorted.”

Ron turned his head to look at Kingsley, who was banishing used tissues with an air of disgust. “Tomorrow,” Kingsley said. “Be at the office at eight, and we can decide where we’re going. I’m getting actively involved in this; the last thing we want to do is wait long enough for M. to move now that he has Malfoy. We can’t give him the time.”

Harry went back to sorting through the papers, tossing a scroll with Pansy’s name into the stack of mail that Ron had without another look.

Once all the notes were checked over and the mess was cleaned up, the other Aurors left, and Harry had to occupy his time until the morning. He took the case file in hand and began to go through it again, sitting on the couch in Draco’s place and turning on the television to listen to the Food Network. There were so many little things about their routine together that Harry had become accustomed to, that he felt he _needed_ to get through this ordeal, that turning on Draco’s favourite shows hadn’t even been a question.

When he’d gone over the file twice over, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up wearily to see Ginny smiling at him with a whiskey neat held out to him. “Harry, relax. You’re not going to find anything that you haven’t thought of before in there. Just…put it down, okay? Everything is going to work out. You need to rest for tomorrow.”

Harry took the drink and swallowed a mouthful, obliging her by setting his file aside and leaning hard back against the couch. “This is my fault,” he said matter-of-factly, and he smiled weakly at her when she shook a cigarette from the half-smoked pack and put it between his lips before lighting it. She then did something he’d never seen her do: she took one for herself.

“It isn’t,” she said, sucking in a deep drag of smoke and coughing violently. “…Merlin, Harry, how do you two do this?” It seemed like a rhetorical question, so he didn’t answer; he was, however, impressed that she kept smoking it. “It’s not your fault. We couldn’t know this was going to happen. We’ve done more than our share of the work taking care of him; it’s time something drove the rest of them to help you on this in more than a supervisory capacity.”

Harry swallowed hard and looked up at the television. “I didn’t want him to get caught,” he said. “I didn’t. He fit in well here, despite everything. He’s…” Harry trailed off and took a drink of his whiskey, feeling entirely useless, and he looked down at his drink with a frown. “He’s going to miss the Iron Chef he’s been talking about all week.”

He fully realised that that was the stupidest thing to have ever come from his mouth, but Ginny, bless her, didn’t start laughing at him. Instead, she looked troubled, and she patted Harry’s knee. “Just let me know how I can help. Anything I can do, I will, you know that.”

He did know it, and he leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Thank you.”

“He’s my friend, too, you prat,” she said with a scoff, and she gestured at the kitchen. “Now I’m going to have to do the cooking, and I’m pants at it. I want him back. We’re going to get him back.”

 

 

It was nine o’clock in the morning, and Harry was already drenched and miserable. It may have been the middle of May, but that didn’t mean that mornings were warm when they were spent knee-high in bogland.

_This is for Draco. You have to do this for Draco._

The night before had settled in Harry’s stomach like a chunk of ice. Long after Ginny had gone to bed, Harry had sat on the couch without Draco. He watched his favourite shows, taped what he knew that Draco would hate to miss, sat in his seat, and even drank the git’s favourite boxed wine. It struck him that these were all very common things for Draco to be doing, given his Pureblood status and his high-and-mighty attitude he’d worn on his sleeve since they were children, and he supposed that it should have shocked him that these would be the things that any Malfoy would enjoy doing.

He supposed that the war had taken its toll on all of them. He didn’t blame Draco for wanting to put his status behind him, given the trouble it was causing now. If that meant that he had to cook on a Muggle stove, debate Quidditch with Ginny Weasley, and drink Franzia like it was water, well, that was good enough for Harry.

He’d gone to the office that morning with a renewed sense of purpose. He didn’t care about any other cases, didn’t care about anything but getting his friend back, and Kingsley hadn’t said anything against him when he’d said as much. The look on Ron’s face had been priceless, but Harry didn’t care; he didn’t spend every night laughing and drinking and leaning on Ron. Not anymore. Ron had Hermione, and Harry had Draco. The fact that Ginny hadn’t immediately leapt into the comparison hadn’t bothered Harry in the least, but he didn’t analyse it. He didn’t have time to analyse anything but the case.

Williamson and Ron wanted to show him where they’d found the clues in Kilnaborris Bog years ago, and so there Harry was, steadily sinking into peat and wondering if there had been any sense in looking around out here. Williamson took them to the exact coordinates, and Harry looked down at the wet ground before he took out his wand and began to canst scanning spells over the area as though it hadn’t been done a dozen times before. He was looking for anything, any trace of magical signature besides those one would find in the Auror Department; unfortunately, he didn’t find anything from his first cast, and so he began to spiral outward, casting the spell again and again.

It was drizzling and the wind was cold, and Harry could very nearly hear Draco bitching at him over the weather. _This is abysmal, Potter, and you’re a complete idiot. Can we go in already? I’m missing my programmes and I’m hungry._ Harry thought that he must be losing it, if he was hearing Draco when he wasn’t even there.

The thought gave him pause, however, and he backed up a few steps. Turning his head from right to left, he stared out across the bog and took in the sight of it. The area was very open, the ground too soft underfoot, and while this was a perfect place for hiding bodies, this wouldn’t be a good place to house a number of beasts unless they were they types that liked to hang about in wetlands.

They weren’t going to find anything here. That did not, however, mean that the fangs hadn’t been something meaningful. Harry cast his eyes west and whispered, “ _Point me_ ,” with his wand flat in the palm of his hand. It pointed him in the direction of Birr, and he looked southeast with a deep sigh.

_In the shadow of a castle. _Those words had been used once, in one of M.’s clues; Harry rubbed his chin and thought about it. “If I were going to hide a magical menagerie,” he said aloud, “then I wouldn’t want to hide right in town, either. But I wouldn’t want to hide in the middle of a bog. M. wants to be worthy of the River Shannon.” He rubbed his hands together then sighed, continuing on in his ever-expanding spiral and casting spells to detect magical signatures.__

__“Have we checked the other bogs?” he asked Williamson when he passed by on his own search for old clues. There were several in the area, after all, and Harry hated to think that they’d left any untouched._ _

__Williamson paused and pulled a small book from the pocket of his robes. “Mm. We checked all the big ones. Meeneen, Ballymacegan, and most of the River Little Brosna Callows. Kingsley figures we should be looking in County Galway this time ‘round, but we just wanted to show you this place to see if you had any ideas that we didn’t.”_ _

__“Galway? Have you checked it over already?”_ _

__Williamson hesitated for a moment. “Galway is mostly—” He swept a hand around at the bog around them. “—just like this. It’s a lot of land to cover. There’s a team out there now, but we’re urged to go over as soon as we’re done here.”_ _

__Harry sighed, and he nodded his head. “Well, we may as well,” he said. “There’s not much here that hasn’t been covered.”_ _

__Still, as they Apparated west, Harry couldn’t help feeling as though they were heading in the wrong direction._ _

 

 

*

Draco had been at M.’s menagerie for a full week, and he could feel his hope starting to fade away.

Madam was as good a host as anyone who had taken their guest captive, he supposed. She didn’t spend a great deal of time trying to talk to him or any such thing; as long as he showed up for meals and ate properly (granted, that was one of the most difficult things he’d been managing there thusfar), she let him do as he liked around the property. Draco spent most of his days trying to forget that he was in captivity, playing with the Crups and taking his chances with the dangerous creatures behind the house.

Most of them weren’t half as dangerous as they should have been. Madam kept them happy and mated for the most part, and they were well-fed. Draco had seen a dragon’s egg hatch, and he’d been allowed to stroke the hatchling with careful fingers and a wary eye on the mother. As Draco hadn’t shown her any ill will since he’d arrived, she didn’t seem to mind that he was poking around her baby.

The creatures with humanlike intelligence were the hardest to bear. They looked at him and his freedom to roam as a great injustice done personally to them, and he’d tried to communicate that he didn’t want to be here anymore than they did, that this little taste of freedom made the fence all the more galling. They were all stuck with no way out, and they were going to be here until something gave—the fence or Madam.

The days were hard, but they didn’t compare to the nights. Draco curled up in a small bed in a meagre-but-functionally-furnished bedroom, and the darkness clawed at his skin. He could hear the restless murmurings of trapped magical creatures outside his windows, the muffled growls and rumblings beneath the floor, and he itched all over. Every little sound that wasn’t from the animals made him jump and sit up, even from sleep, and when he lay awake, he thought about Harry.

Harry was out there looking for him. He knew he was. He wondered if Harry was even sleeping, if he was able to force himself to lie down next to Ginny in the evenings and get a few hours of sleep so he could go at the case anew in the mornings; somehow, Draco doubted it. He would turn his head and look out the small window in his room, and he’d think that he and Harry must both be lying awake and staring at the moon, wondering where the other was.

Draco wasn’t so stupid as to think that Harry missed him in the same way that he missed Harry. Harry had never shown any indication of attraction, and Draco knew that being away from one another was only making himself more miserably infatuated. Harry was _looking_ for him, caring about him and probably drinking way too much so he could shut his eyes for just a few minutes and rest.

Draco didn’t only think about Harry. He thought about Ginny, too, and Pansy. He wondered if Pansy remembered anything, if she could even remember that they knew one another. He lay in bed and smiled at memories of Ginny sipping coffee at breakfast and gearing up for a day at the pitch, talking to him about her teammates so often that Draco knew them all by name despite having never seen them. He thought about that sad look she got on her face sometimes when she saw him and Harry sitting on the couch without her, and he wondered what she meant by it.

His sleep was light and uneasy, and he rose the morning of the eight day with heavy rings under his eyes. He didn’t put any effort into dressing himself, wearing a ratty shirt and pants that were sorely mismatched out to breakfast, and he sat himself down across the table from Madam. Their meals usually passed in complete silence, so he gave a start when she greeted him. “Good morning, Draco.”

“Ah, good morning, Madam.” He reached for his juice immediately, and he took a long drink of it before he looked up at her to see her watching him expectantly. “Yes?”

She smiled, but there was no kindness in her eyes and it chilled him. “You’ve spent a week getting used to the place. The beasts seem to be taking to you well enough. Are you happy here?”

He gaped at her, as though he could possibly be happy being kept prisoner anywhere. He started to say so, then curbed his tongue before he cleared his throat. “It is not as bad as I thought it might be, Madam.” He thought it best to appease her.

She looked delighted, and his shoulders relaxed. “I’m glad, Draco. You seem lonely, so I thought that you might meet the friend I brought here for you this morning. I’m not going to stay for breakfast.” Indeed, her food was entirely untouched. “Li is a lovely girl, and I think that you two will find that you have much in common. She’s on her way up. I will be back at lunch. See that she has breakfast with you, won’t you?”

“Yes ma’am.” Draco was relieved to see her leave the room, and his eyes snapped up to the door when it opened again. A tiny young woman entered the room, looking no older than him and of Chinese descent, and he gave her a weak smile. “Good morning, Li.”

She looked absolutely terrified, and he didn’t blame her. She was dressed in clothes worse than his own, and there were ghosts of bruises on her arms. Her thick, black hair was tangled around her shoulders, and the circles beneath her eyes rivalled his own. “Good morning, Draco Malfoy,” she said in a quiet, heavily accented voice, and she sat down at the table in Madam’s seat. She wore a look on her face that he’d seen on himself in the mirror in Potter’s flat in the midst of a panic attack—she felt hunted, as though she were being watched by something unseen—and Draco felt a pang of sympathy in his gut.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly. “We’re in this together. We’re…we’ll make it.” He didn’t know what else to say to her as she stared at the breakfast lain out before her, her eyes snapping to the glass of juice she’d been given when it bubbled. He watched as she reached out to take the glass in hand, and she smelled it with a perplexed expression. “What is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, and she pushed it across to him. “It smells like nothing I’ve ever smelled.”

Draco took the glass in hand and he lifted it to smell it. He’d smelled it before, but he couldn’t quite place the scent as a whole; it smelled like a number of very different things that didn’t go together. It smelled of white roses, of broomstick polish, of fresh-cooked veal, and of something he couldn’t quite place but knew he’d smelled recently. He swirled it in the opaque glass and it seemed to change colour, and he shook his head, recognising it but so light-headed from smelling it that he couldn’t tell her what it was. His own juice had been nothing but orange juice, he was sure.

Li regarded the glass warily. “I have to drink it, don’t I?” Fear made her voice tremble, and Draco looked around the room. There was nowhere to pour it, and neither of them had their wands. He didn’t know what to say to her, so he nodded mutely with a shrug, and he put his hands on the edge of the table when she lifted it cautiously to her lips. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” he whispered, and he winced when she took a cautious sip.

It didn’t immediately seem to do anything, and she tested it on her stomach before she took another drink, then another, before the glass was drained. She set it away from herself and wiped her lips on the back of her hand, and she took a deep breath. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Probably just a supplement.”

Then her eyes lifted and locked on Draco’s, and Draco remembered.

 _It is probably the most dangerous potion in this room._ Draco had laughed then, rolling his eyes and looking away to tune out his Potions lesion with Slughorn. He’d had better things to think about than the sorts of things that set his classmates’ hearts to pounding, like the fact that he could win a vial of Felix Felicis and the Vanishing Cabinet would be fixed. All the love he’d needed was that of his parents for saving their family.

Amortentia hadn’t been high on his priority list then. Now, it was right at the top of the list.

“Um.” She was staring at him as though she had never seen anything like him, and he pushed back from the table. “Li, listen, I—”

“Yes, Draco?” Her voice was breathy and high, and he swallowed hard, standing on his feet. “Are you going somewhere?”

“No, I just…Listen, there’s someone else, all right? It’ll never work between us, you understand?” He had no idea if one could reason with someone drugged by Amortentia, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. “I’m sure you’re lovely, I just don’t think that this is something that we could manage. We have to get out of here, you understand?”

Li was on her feet, then, and she was coming towards him. He took a step back when she got right in his personal space, and he looked wildly to the windows; his whole body gave a jolt when he realised that one of them was open, and Madam was watching the pair of them with a faint smile. “We can work something out, Draco, I’m sure of it,” Li whispered, much closer to his ear than he would have liked, and panic bloomed in his chest.

“Fucking fix it!” he snarled at M., who simply smiled at him as the girl’s hands moved to his shoulders. “This is _inhumane_! I’m not going to fucking go along with this!”

“I’m sorry, Draco.” The older woman’s voice held no ounce of compassion, and Draco shoved Li violently away from himself. “I saw you with the hatchling yesterday, and I knew that my instinct had been right. You can’t be the last Pureblood in Europe, after all, and I assure you her lines are just as pure as yours. It would be a shame to squander that.”

“ _What the fuck is that supposed to mean_?!”

“ _Imperio!_ ”

Draco choked and he tried to fight it the moment the curse left her lips, feeling the Unforgivable clawing at his brain. _Give in. Just do as I say, Draco._ “NO!” he shrieked, pain lashing through his skull, and he clutched at his head. He could feel Li panicking over him, feel her tiny hands on his shoulders and pulling at them, hear her screaming and asking if he was all right, her Draco.

He had never been good at fighting off the Imperius curse, had never been able to do it successfully for more than a few moments, and the pain of resistance was worse than any Cruciatus curse he had ever been forced to endure. He could taste blood in his mouth, and he choked out a plea that sounded suspiciously like Harry’s name as he leaned forward to press his head against the rug.

_Give in, and all this will go away. We can make you happy. Let us make you happy. Look how she loves you._

Draco had been miserable for most of his life since Voldemort had returned, and there had been times when he was certain that he would never know happiness again. All that had been changing before Pansy’s doppelgänger had walked into Harry Potter’s flat, all of it had been so simple before that. He thought that he had glimpsed some happiness, and it had been at the side of his former rival, a wine glass in his hand and a laugh on his lips with a mystery to solve in front of them.

It would feel nice to give in now, to ease the stabbing pain behind his eyes, to succumb to the hands clutching at him and the voice sobbing near his ear.

“No, no, no,” he moaned, even as he opened his eyes and looked into Li’s worried face. “Please.”

_He looked down and smiled, seeing that Harry had fallen asleep on his shoulder, and he took the bottle of whiskey from his hand to set on the ground. “You’re going to drop that,” he admonished, and he thought about taking his arm back. He thought about calling for Ginny to come and fetch her overly drunk boyfriend._

_He didn’t do either of those things. He lay his cheek against the top of Potter’s head, and he smoothed down the wild black hair that tried to make him sneeze. Harry was breathing quietly, and he murmured something unintelligible against the sound of the television; Draco felt a rush of odd affection, and his arm tightened around Harry’s shoulders. “I hate you,” he whispered, and he closed his own eyes._

_He didn’t, though. Not really. He couldn’t imagine being anywhere else._

That was all gone now.

“Draco, please just give in! Madam, stop it!”

Draco was never going to be happy here if he didn’t do what he was told.

“ _Madam, please!_ ”

He had to give in, or he was going to die. His head was going to explode, and he’d never see Harry or Ginny or Pansy ever again even if they came for him because his body would be thrown to the dragons.

_I’m sorry, Harry._

His body sagged against the rug, and the knife ripping his brain to pieces vanished. The pain ebbed away, replaced by blissful nothingness, and he slowly sat up on the rug to look down at the girl who’d thrown herself in his arms.

_Secure your bloodline, Draco Malfoy._

He didn’t think he’d ever heard such a brilliant idea.

 

*

Despite Harry’s best efforts to convince Kingsley otherwise, it had been determined that once revision for final Auror classification exams had begun, he would have to attend all of the classes despite the case pressing harder in around him every day. Instead of being where he needed to be in Ireland, he was forced every morning into classes that he had absolutely no interest in taking, not now. Stealth and Detection, Poisons, Administration, Tracking, all of it seemed like a complete waste of his time when he needed to be in the field looking for Draco Malfoy.

Afternoons were spent in the field. Harry felt as though he’d cast ten thousand detection spells of all kinds, looking for magical signatures and magical creatures and everything that he could think of in relation to the case. They’d found nothing, and Harry’s mood was souring with every failed scouting mission.

Ron seemed to be enjoying the whole ordeal, and that was only making it worse. Harry was sitting across from Ron at the pub after yet another useless afternoon in the field, and he was steadily drinking himself into a stupor as Ron gloated over the whole thing.

“You know, I think this should have happened to him years ago. It makes you wonder why ol’ Lucy never tried for another one, yeah? Since they were the last ones left? I’ll bet M. would have liked to have a set of Malfoys to sell off. I reckon Malfoy must be in Syria or something by now, working as a houseboy for some rich old bugger.”

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry said forcefully over his pint, his eyes narrowing. “This isn’t fucking funny. It’s not a joke. We’re bloody Aurors and you need to start trying on the case so the rest of us aren’t having to do your work.”

Ron raised his hands in defence, still grinning, and Harry wanted to break his nose. “I never said it was a joke, mate. It’s just fitting that this sort of thing happened to Malfoy. Look, I know you and Gin say he’s an all right bloke, but he’s still the fucking ferret.” He looked at Harry for a moment, and he seemed to see that he was treading a dangerous path because the smile on his face dimmed a bit. “I’m working on it, okay? It’s driving Hermione mad. She goes on about how she’s ovulating or something, and I have to put her off because I’m chewing on my quill and tearing up parchment. You know, whoever solves this case will be the guy Kingsley puts up for promotion when they make him Minister. I wouldn’t mind it.”

Harry took a long drink of lager and raised his hand for another. “I just don’t know what we’re missing. We’ve looked all over. Maybe it’s because we can’t find M.’s magical signature on anything, or we don’t know what we’re looking for in it. Maybe we’re looking for the wrong thing. We’re wasting our fucking time in the bogs, Ron.”

Ron frowned at him, and he shook his head. “No case tonight, Harry. Please. It’s all I’ve been thinking about, and I need a fucking break. Not all of us got to go to Spain, you know.” He smiled encouragingly at Harry. “Was it fun while it lasted, anyway? Hermione says Ginny was weird about it when she asked.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders and stared into his fresh beer, tapping his tongue along the backs of his teeth. “I felt guilty the whole time for not taking him with us. He asked to go. He was fucking scared, and we left him there, and it was all I could think about the whole time,” he said, and he took another long drink. “I liked spending time alone with Ginny, but you know we’re not doing all that great.”

There was a long pause between them, and Ron sighed before he broke the silence. “Are you stringing her along?” he asked.

Harry blinked in surprise, and he looked up at Ron in confusion. “What?”

“Are you stringing Ginny along? Because if you are, I’m going to have to hit you. Look, I know you’ve been obsessed with Malfoy since we were kids, but you’ve really got to prioritise here. You’re going to lose her if you don’t think about her.” Ron looked embarrassed, and Harry could hear Hermione’s voice behind the words, lecturing Ron about what he should say about it. It made him wonder what Ginny had said to Hermione after they’d got back.

“If she can’t understand that I’m working on something important—”

“It’s fucking _Malfoy_.”

“And he’s important. The case is important, and she knows it is, and if she can’t handle that, then what about the next important case? We’re just about to be licensed, Ron. This is the first of thousands of cases we’re going to be working our arses off over for the next what, forty years? Maybe more?” Harry took a drink and slammed his mug on the table; his face was already numb from alcohol, and he wanted to relax, but it was as though Ron was trying to wind him up.

Ron just stared at him for a few moments, fingers tapping on the sides of his glass. “Do you even love her?”

“What does that have to do with—”

“ _Do you love her?_ Because that’s my little sister, Harry, and if you don’t love her, then you need to fucking get it over with so everyone can move on.”

“I don’t have to justify anything to you!” Harry was on his feet, then, and he was glaring down at Ron as though he’d insulted him. “I fail to see how any of this relates to the fucking case as far as you’re concerned. Why don’t you keep your nose the hell out of it?”

Ron snarled at him. “It doesn’t have to do with the fucking case! You’re my best mate, and you’re fucking my sister around, and I’m telling you to fucking end it if you’re not going to try to make her happy!”

Harry thought about punching him right then, strongly considered it, then just sighed and sat back down. He waved for another beer—how had he downed this one so fast?—and he stared for a long time at the grain of the table before he lifted his eyes once more to look at Ron. “What’s she said to you, then?”

Ron hesitated, the anger vanishing from his face. He looked like this was the worst possible thing that Harry could have asked him, so Harry knew he’d asked the right question. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

They stared at one another then, and Harry tried to read the emotions running over Ron’s face. Hermione had once said that he had the emotional range of a teaspoon, but Harry wasn’t sure that that was entirely true. Ron often felt inadequate, angry, competitive, and pleasant, that was true, but now he seemed extremely reluctant and that wasn’t something that Harry often saw on Ron’s face since the war had ended. “She’s talking about leaving, mate. Says she loves you, but it’s like you look past each other. I…” He took a drink. “I overheard her telling Hermione that she thought that one of the team’s trainers fancied her.”

Harry thought that the words should have hit him harder than they did, even if he was well on his way to being piss-drunk. Instead, he found that he didn’t really feel anything about it. “Well,” he said quietly, “maybe she’d be a lot happier with someone else.”

“You can’t mean that.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “I think I do, Ron. I think I’ve been waiting for her to leave for ages. I’d rather that she left before we hate each other.”

Ron looked at Harry’s beer, and he was frowning; Harry felt self-conscious about it, and he wondered how many he’d had since they’d arrived. It seemed like it must be a lot, since he was pleasantly numb and the lights were a little bright for him given how dim the pub was, and he chewed on his lip. He really did seem to be drinking a lot. Ginny was always fussing at him over how much whiskey he drank at home, though she hadn’t said anything about it in the time since they’d come back from Spain. He knew he’d had several bottles since then, especially because he was so focused on his work and didn’t have Draco there as a gauge.

Maybe that was what was driving him and Ginny apart so forcefully. Still, he found better solace at the bottom of a bottle than he did in her. She deserved better than that, she really did.

“Some war hero, huh?” he asked Ron quietly, a sad smile on his face. Ron looked up at him with a wince, and they held each other’s eyes over their drinks for what seemed like forever.

“We’re all fucked up, Harry.”

They were all fucked up, Harry supposed, but he thought that he was probably worse off. His scar didn’t hurt anymore, but he dreamed about the war all the time. He dreamed about the ghosts of his family standing around him, telling him they would be beside him as he walked into his death. He dreamed of Hagrid sobbing over his body, of the sight of Lavender Brown’s mangled body in the corridor, of Remus and Tonks and Fred and everyone who lay dead at his feet as he stood in the Great Hall and stared at the Malfoys as they huddled together with nowhere to go.

Harry dreamed about the funerals and the parties. He could remember the first drink of Old Ogden’s Firewhiskey he’d had after Fred’s funeral, could remember laughing and holding onto his friends and singing raucous songs into the night air as they celebrated their dead brother’s life instead of mourning his death. He dreamed of the first time he made love to Ginny and felt so alive, and of the first time he realised that she had kept her eyes closed the whole time he’d fucked her as though it would ruin it if she opened her eyes to see him above her.

He dreamed of Hermione trying to conceal that she was crying in their tent as they left the spot where Ron had abandoned them, and of her gut-wrenching screams as she was tortured in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. He dreamed of the fear in Draco’s eyes as he refused to turn Harry over for who he was, and of the look in Dobby’s eyes right before the light went out of them.

Harry didn’t like his dreams very much; they reminded him of things he’d rather forget. The events in his life that had shaped him to be a legendary war hero were the things that woke him gasping in the middle of the night and wondering if maybe he shouldn’t see his therapist again. He would have done anything in the world to find an Obliviator who would take on his case, but he knew that no one ever would.

He was who he was because of the things he had endured during the war and after. Even if he forgot all of it, there wasn’t much of his life that could be considered happy. He wouldn’t know who he was.

Harry took another drink and hiccoughed into his palm. “Yeah, Ron. We’re all fucked up.”

They didn’t talk nearly as much after that, and Harry left Ron at the pub less than an hour later. He was eternally thankful that he lived close; he’d never have been able to Apparate as drunk as he was, and so the walk was blissfully short. The wind felt warm and comfortable against his face, and he lifted it to the sky as he walked, wishing more than anything that he could see the stars in London.

Ginny was home when he came into the flat, and she regarded him briefly before a look of disgust crossed her face. “Been out with Ron?” she asked, setting the book in her hands down on her lap. Harry recognised it immediately as one of those concerning the geography of Ireland, and he swallowed hard.

“Yeah.” He locked the door behind himself and opened one of the windows, taking a deep breath of the fresh air before he settled down on the couch next to her. He offered her a hand, but she didn’t take it, and he sighed. “What is it now?”

Ginny shook her head. “I’ve been out with Hermione,” she said quietly. “She thinks that we should break it off if we’re unhappy.”

“Are we unhappy?” Harry asked, even though he certainly didn’t need to. They both knew the answer to that, and it shone clearly in her eyes when she looked over at him.

“Yes, I think so,” she said. “I thought that maybe we could make it work, and I feel like we really did try, Harry, but I don’t know if we should be drawing this out any longer. We shouldn’t have to try so hard. None of it comes naturally, and that’s fucked up, isn’t it?”

It was fucked up. Harry nodded his head, and he stared at his knees until she reached over to take him by the hand; he glanced over at her again, and he was shocked to see a faint smile on her face. “It doesn’t have to be like it is on the telly, you know,” she said. “We don’t have to hate each other. We’re just…we’re not happy, so we’re being adults about it and we’re ending it, okay? That means we can be friends. Besides, we have to find Malfoy. Draco. We have to find Draco. I’m not going to stop helping you with this just because we can’t do this anymore.”

Harry thought that it sounded very much as though she’d spent the whole evening preparing this speech, and he had to give it to her: it was a good one. She was right. If they broke it off amicably, there was no reason they couldn’t still help each other and be friends, and they could stop beating themselves up about the fact that it wasn’t working no matter how hard they tried. He didn’t think that he could stop knowing Ginny any more than he could stop breathing, she had become such a central factor in his life, and the chance to know her as a friend as he had in his youth was an attractive one.

He wouldn’t have to pretend, and neither would she.

“Okay,” he said, and he nodded his head. “I think we can do that.” It felt as though there should have been something more than that, but Harry knew that they’d been breaking it off for weeks, months even. He smiled at her, and she smiled right back, and he squeezed her hand. “So what do we do now?”

Ginny sighed, and she leaned back. “Hermione said I could stay with her and Ron until I find a flat. I thought I would find one closer to the training pitch, you know? You can keep this place, but the lease is up next month and you could move if you wanted. When you get Draco back, he’s probably going to want to stay with you, so you’d want to get a place big enough.”

Harry stared at her. “What? Why would he want to stay here?”

Ginny shrugged her shoulders. “He’s been here for months, Harry, and he likes it. I don’t think he could rig up a television to work in the Manor, and when he’s back, he’ll probably need to be in and out of St. Mungo’s for a bit. This won’t have been easy on him, you know. He’ll need support, and going back to the Manor by himself isn’t going to do him any good in that department. Besides.” She smiled at Harry, still holding tightly to his hand, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. “He likes you.”

Harry snorted at her. “Any port in a storm, Gin.” He took a moment to take in the feel of her leaning against his shoulder, and he wondered if he’d ever feel it again. He pulled his hand out of hers and wrapped it around her shoulders, holding her close to his side, and he kissed the top of her head. “We’re really going to do it, aren’t we?”

“Don’t get maudlin on me, Harry Potter,” she said, and even though he couldn’t see her face, he could hear the tinge of sadness in her voice. “It’s going to be fine. It’ll just take some getting used to. I figure I can stay here tonight to make sure you’re all right, you lush, and I’ll get everything packed in the morning while you’re in class.”

She’d really put a lot of thought into it. Harry sighed into her hair and nodded his head. “Okay. Whatever you want,” he whispered. Neither of them said anything after that, just breathing one another in as though they meant to remember each other properly. Harry knew that he was going to miss her companionship, but he reminded himself that he didn’t have to be without it. They could lead separate lives and still be close.

Hell, they might even be closer that way, because they could be happy.

 

*

Draco woke with a sharp gasp, clarity coming to him as surely as the pain lashing through his arms. He was in the dark, and he felt the bars of the cage pressing against his bare back and making his bones ache; he gave a sharp jerk and hissed in pain as whatever it was binding his wrists behind him through the bars sent painful jolts up his arms. He felt grimy and disgusting, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, and he shifted the rest of his body experimentally. His clothes were stiff with sweat and rubbing against his skin, and his feet were bare.

“Draco, my Draco, don’t move.” The voice was soft and worried nearby, and he jerked his head towards Li in the dark.

“Where are we?” he demanded, his voice ragged and his throat impossibly dry. “Li, where are we?”

“Downstairs. Don’t you remember?”

Draco leaned his head back against the bars and took a deep breath. He did not, in fact, remember very much that wasn’t surrounded in a hazy fog of mindless bliss. His own thoughts were painfully clear in his head, and he wondered how long it had been since he’d had them; he suspected that it had been longer than he could imagine.

Li’s breathing was rough and harsh nearby, and he winced. The last thing he remembered with any sort of confidence was her eyes closing as she took a drink at the breakfast table, and the feeling of dread in his gut when he’d realised exactly what it was that she was drinking. Amortentia. She was under the effects of a love potion.

Then the voice had told him to sire an heir, and he had had no choice but to obey. He was grateful that he could only remember flashes of that, of Li’s hands on his face and her eyes filled with absolute, consuming obsession with him. He wondered how many times they’d made the attempt, because he could see flashes of it in different rooms; he did not, however, remember anything about this room since the Imperius curse had taken hold of him. “Li,” he whispered, “why are we down here?” Madam had said before that Li was down here when he arrived as a punishment.

He jolted when he felt her hand reach through the cage to touch his shoulder, and he jerked away as electricity shot up his arms. Biting back his yelp of shock, he squeezed his eyes shut and listened to her. “Madam said that she had to go out for a few days and that we had to stay down here in case we tried to run away. She took the Imperius curse off you because you were starting to fade in and out, and she was worried that you were going to lose your mind. She said if you couldn’t function anymore, then they would drop your M.O.M. Classification lower, I think.”

“Four ‘x’s,” he whispered. “I’m four. That’s what the book says. Wait, you know I was under Imperius? Do you know you’re under a love potion?”

Li made a soft sound of recognition. “Yes,” she said rather distantly. “She’s been gone a few days already. I think it’s wearing off, because I can look away from you now.” There was a long stretch of silence between them that was filled with the hungry rumbles of the creatures housed in the same room; Draco could feel his own stomach tearing itself apart. “That potion, the one she gave me—we call it Kùnrao—I know that you have to take it over and over, so I’m starting to remember things in a different way.” Her hand reached through the bars again, and Draco didn’t jerk away when she touched his arm this time. “It’s all horrible, isn’t it? All of it?”

Draco looked over at her in the dark, trying to discern her shape. “She’s trying to make us have a baby. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want this. You understand that, right? You know that I don’t want to, not like this?”

“I know.” Her voice was small. “We’ve been working on it for a while, I think, maybe a few weeks. I’m not really sure.” Her tiny fingers curled around the filthy cloth of his sleeve, and he dug his heels in against the straw beneath him; he recognised vaguely that it smelled like urine. “I don’t want her to come back. I’d rather die, I think. I’m engaged to be married, you know. He’ll never marry me now, especially not if…not if we have a baby.”

Draco grit his teeth, trying to ward off the creeping feeling of despair threatening to take him over. “I wouldn’t rather die. I have someone I want to get back to. He’s going to come save us, you know. He’s going to get us out of here, because he’s an Auror and he’s working on finding us. We’ll get out, and you’ll get married, and we’re not going to have a baby, Li. We won’t. We’re going to make it, and fuck if we won’t have a crack team of Obliviators.” The more he spoke of it, the less he believed it, and he fell quiet so he could stare at his lap in the darkness.

Where was Harry?

Where the _fuck_ was Harry?

“What if he doesn’t come?” Her voice was shaky, and Draco knew that she was crying. He had the urge to turn to her and try to protect her from this, because she didn’t deserve it either, but he couldn’t exactly move. “What if we’re stuck here, Draco?”

“Don’t _say_ that,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare. He’s going to come, mark my words. We’re going to go home and we’re going to be able to forget all of this.”

“I don’t want to forget it.” Her words were spoken weakly, but there was resolve behind them. He looked in her direction in surprise. “I don’t want to forget what happens in the world, and I don’t want to forget that this sort of thing is out there waiting for us. Even if we get out of here, what’s the point? Even if Madam dies, there’s always going to be someone else, isn’t there?”

Draco shivered all over, and he fought the urge to vomit; instead, he looked away and bit down on the inside of his cheek. It was always going to be like this, in one way or another. The number of Purebloods in the world was dwindling, and this experience was nothing short of eye-opening with regards to just how far some people were willing to go to keep them from going extinct. Was he always going to be hunted this way?

Even if he got out, was it going to be over?

He didn’t know how long he and Li sat in the darkness together, but he did know that he was in and out of consciousness. There was a distinct lack of water and food, and Draco’s body was crying out in protest of this starvation. His mouth was so dry, and he was getting beyond hungry to the point that he was considering whether or not he would be able to consume the collar of his shirt.

Li was crying more often than not, and Draco could hear what sounded like prayer in Mandarin. He didn’t speak a word of it, but he didn’t know what else she could possibly be doing. He thought that maybe he should pray, too, but he found that he didn’t know the words.

How did one speak to a god that may or may not exist?

Instead, Draco found that he reached out for Harry in his mind, and he did something that he hadn’t done since his fifth year: he opened his mind willingly to allow for any Legilimency. He found himself desperately hoping that the Ministry had a Scryer or a Seer on staff, perhaps in the Unspeakables, that Harry could go to for consultation. There had to be some way to find him, though he knew that he wouldn’t be much help as he was there in the basement. Anyone scrying on Draco then would see nothing but blackness and the ragged sounds of his breath.

He tried to think most often of the times he’d been outside on the grounds, about what the fence looked like and about what little of the terrain he could see over the fence. He tried to think of the sun, of the types of trees he’d lounged beneath with puppies and banshees, and he pleaded with whomever could hear him, if indeed anyone ever could, to get him out and erase every trace of what had happened there.

In one period of consciousness, there was a sound above their heads, and Draco jerked his face towards the ceiling. He could hear Madam’s shoes on the floorboards above, and he ached all over for food and water, but he wasn’t sure if it was worth the Imperius curse again. If they continued on, there was no doubt that he would sire a child with the poor girl locked away with him, and he knew that she didn’t want it any more than he did. “She’s home,” he whispered.

He heard Li jerk awake next to him, and he didn’t react to her even when her hand jumped out to his arm and her nails dug into the skin. He stared instead towards the stairs, and when the door opened to flood the room with light, he winced and squeezed his eyes shut. Thankfully, Madam didn’t turn on the overhead lights in the room, letting the light from the floor above illuminate everything dimly; there was a sudden and cacophonous roar as the magical creatures around them came to life in hunger and thirst. Madam was cooing, and Draco smelled raw meat and fish, heard it hitting the ground as it was thrown to the creatures who would have torn her apart if she came too close to their cages.

Draco felt as though he could be counted among that number. He steeled himself and peeked his eyes open again, squinting and seeing just how filthy he was—his clothes were caked in substances he didn’t want to think about, and he knew keenly just how badly he reeked—before he lifted his eyes to Madam. He found himself baring his teeth. “Where did you go?” he tried to say, but he was so thirsty that the skin in his mouth cracked open, and he spat blood at her.

“What a sight.” Madam’s voice was healthy and dripping with derision. “Look at yourself, Draco Malfoy. You really are an animal, aren’t you? I suppose we all are, when we’re stripped of excess.” She knelt down in front of the cage, and he jerked forward, agony singing through him and forcing him to slump back; he whipped his head around to see a variant of the _Incarcerous_ charm visibly tying his wrists together outside of the cage with what appeared to be blue fishing line. “I was only gone for a few days. Did the caretaker not come by to check on you? Pity. Tell me now, Draco, are you capable of regaining your higher functions, or do I have to restrain you? You need a bath and something to eat, I think.”

Draco’s eyes jerked over to Li, seeing that she was in much the same condition as he was but without bindings on her wrists, and he looked back to Madam. “Ah. You’re worried about her. Don’t worry, Draco; your mare will be taken care of afterwards. We have to see if she’s implanted, after all, and then you can go back to rutting against her.”

He knew then that he had been wrong earlier when he’d said to Li that he didn’t want to die. He did, he wanted more than anything in that moment to fall over dead, and he squeezed his eyes tightly closed for a long few moments. When he opened them again, he stared right at Madam through the bars and simply nodded his head once.

He would die on his own terms, but he knew that it was going to happen here.

“ _Imperio._ ” Relinquishing control to someone else had never felt so wonderful.

 

*

Living apart from Ginny wasn’t as hard as it should have been. There were a thousand distractions for Harry, including his revision courses and the case, and before he knew it, he’d been sleeping alone for over a week. It was the end of May, and licensing exams were to take place starting in ten days; Harry found himself less consumed with reviewing material from his training and more concerned with the case. He felt Draco’s absence in the flat more keenly than he felt Ginny’s, and when he wasn’t staring at notes and speculating, he was lying on the couch and staring up at the ceiling, thinking about Draco.

The dreams hadn’t eased up. He dreamed constantly about the time he and Draco had spent together, about the night they’d gone dancing together and he’d had his hands all over Draco. His mind was intent on keeping a steady stream of images on the backs of his eyelids, and it felt as though every time he so much as blinked, he saw him.

The thought had crossed his mind more than once that the reason he found it so easy to let Ginny go was that his affections had been shifted onto someone else, and he had more than enough time to analyse that. Sitting by himself in the flat with nothing but the reminders of Draco Malfoy around him, he was forced to admit to himself that he was attracted to his ex-rival. He could strongly remember the feel of Draco’s arms around his waist on their shared broomstick after their Seeker’s game. He could smell Draco on the clothes he’d left behind, and in a moment of weakness, he’d curled up with one of his old Slytherin jumpers and closed his eyes for a brief nap.

The realisation that he was attracted to a man didn’t bring him particular consternation; he had seen several gay couples in his years with the Ministry, and he knew that there were several classmates from his year in Hogwarts that were gay. The wizarding community didn’t seem to react adversely to them, so Harry didn’t see it as something that should really concern him. Of course, if the Prophet caught wind of it, he’d never hear the end of it and he knew it, but no one knew but him for now, and he found solace in that fact.

He didn’t want to tell anyone, not even Ron and Hermione. He was already toeing a fine line with Ron after his break-up with Ginny, and he didn’t think that Hermione would have anything kind to say about the fact that he wasn’t particularly upset by the ending of such a long relationship. Then again, he supposed that she might understand. Even though she was so busy with her own life, she wasn’t blind, and he knew that she knew just how unhappy he had been. She had probably known longer than he, that he was miserable and in need of a change.

There was no question that they both would have been extremely upset to find that he was harbouring an all-consuming crush on the victim of his pet case. They would be further disappointed in him when they realised that it was the reason he couldn’t focus on his classes.

The thought of taking the Auror licensing examinations wasn’t as terrifying as it should have been, and he had spent enough time thinking about them recently to know that it wasn’t because they were going to be easy. The more he thought about it, the less he was sure that he wanted to pass them at all. Sure, he enjoyed working on cases, but this one was very close to home. It was the first to hit so close, but it wouldn’t be the last.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to be in a line of work that was just a continuation of the stress that he’d felt since his first year at Hogwarts. He’d spent his childhood chasing Dark wizards. Wasn’t it time for a change?

He couldn’t stop working on the case, of course; he had to find Draco and get him home, but he wasn’t sure that he would take on another case afterward. If he didn’t resign, he was certainly going to take an extended and uninterrupted holiday somewhere where no one would recognise him for who he was. He thought that he might take Draco with him.

There was no question in his mind that Draco was alive. They would have heard from M. if he was dead, he thought, and when Kingsley had gone to the Unspeakables, they had tried to scry to find him. If he was dead, Harry thought, then they would have known it. Instead, Harry had peered into the scrying pool and seen nothing but blackness; he would have paid any sum of Galleons to be able to hear what was going on, but scrying didn’t seem to work that way. It did, however, confirm that Draco was alive since they were able to scry on him at all.

He was terrified that Draco would die before he could get to him, and that thought drove him to his bottle of whiskey more often than not. That blood would be on his hands, on the hands of the Auror Department, and he couldn’t bear the thought of it; he knew that one day, he _would_ have more blood on his hands, and it made him want to run. He could play Quidditch or find some other way to save lives instead of actively hunting Dark wizards.

It was late in the evening when, drowsy and drunk, he rose off of the couch and turned off the television. He took his bottle to the kitchen and set it down on the counter, regarding the ice box for a long moment before he changed his mind about eating and stumbled his way into the washroom. He caught a look of himself in the mirror.

He looked dreadful. His eyes were ringed in black circles and bloodshot, and he wasn’t sure when he’d last shaved, but he was growing a full beard. His lips were cracked, his skin sallow, and he desperately needed to wash his hair. “Merlin,” he whispered as he stared at his reflection. “You’ve really got to start taking care of yourself, Harry.” It was not the time for grooming, however, so he relieved himself before he washed his hands and went into the hallway.

He went into the guest bedroom where Draco had been staying, and he opened the window to let in fresh air before he sat down at the writing desk there. Draco had spent some time writing, mostly to himself when he wasn’t talking to Pansy, and he ran his fingers over Draco’s school journal. _Don’t you dare read this, Potter. You might be startled at just how much of an evil genius I really was at Hogwarts._ The words still rang in his ears from the first week of Malfoy’s stay there, and he smiled before he tapped the cover with his wand. It sprung open at the third tap, and Harry fingered over the spine before he flipped open to the first page.

_September 1, 1991_

_It’s the first day of classes at Hogwarts, and I’ll never tell anyone that I already miss Mum and Dad. They told me that I would probably be homesick, but I told them that I would be no such thing and laughed about it all the way here on the train. I haven’t ever spent a night away from them before, and I could hardly sleep last night._

_It’s barbaric that the Slytherins have to live in the dungeons when everyone else gets to live above ground. Father should run Dumbledore out of this school and make some much-needed changes._

_The Sorting feast last night was passable, I guess. We have better food at home, but I got to eat with my new classmates and make some new friends as well as meet some old ones again. Greg and Vince sat with me, and Pansy was there, too._

_Speaking of friends, I hate that sod Harry Potter. Clearly he needs some proper education, because I tried to be friends with him just as Father told me to, and he spurned me for a Weasley. A **Weasley**. He’s going to come around, I know he will. Once he sees that I am an invaluable friend to have, he’ll come around and we’ll be mates, and Weasley can go and die as far as I’m concerned._

Harry flipped to another portion, smiling at himself at the idea of an eleven year-old Malfoy scribbling furiously in his secret journal about being spurned.

_Father says to keep my ear to the ground for the heir of Slytherin. I wish it was me. I’d be a hero if I was in charge of showing those Mudbloods a thing or two. I’d string them all up by their ankles so we could see their knickers and pants._

_The heir of Slytherin is petrifying people. I don’t have anything to worry about because I’m a Pureblood, of course, but I still worry sometimes. I don’t look out the windows anymore._

_There’s a madman on the loose, and I’m keeping close to my friends. No one could fuck with Greg and Vince and get away with it, not even Sirius Black. He’s my mum’s cousin, and she says he’s entirely unhinged. I wonder if he’s really after Potter. Maybe we could go after him together and I could double-cross him so I could collect the bounty on his head after he’s fixed the Potter-problem._

_Fuck **Potter and his fucking Firebolt are you KIDDING ME?**_

_Everything’s about fucking Potter, of course he gets in the Triwizard Tournament. I’m going to have a strong word with my father about the running of this school. I can think of a few select people who need to be on their way out, not least of which is Trelawney._

_Pansy tried to kiss me at the Yule Ball and I just about gagged. Honestly, what was she thinking?_

_Potter said the Dark Lord is back. Diggory is dead. I don’t want to go home._

_Finally, Father has had a hand in doing something right for this school. Professor Umbridge is the most brilliant teacher we’ve had besides Snape. Can you imagine if they’d hired another werewolf? The horror. This place was going to the dogs, but now it’s getting back on track. I’m pretty excited for the year._

_They say I’m going to be made a Death Eater over the summer. I get my Mark. I’m chosen, me, ME, chosen to lead the Dark Lord to glory! Finally, someone has some taste!_

_Father is in prison._

_I received the Dark Mark today._

_He says he’ll kill my family._

_He says he’ll kill me._

_Fuck._

_I can’t fix it._

_I can’t fucking FIX IT. I don’t understand._

_I’m losing my fucking mind._

_I’m going to die._

_I’m going to be dead because of a bloody cabinet._

_I’m so fucking scared._

_Snape keeps trying to help but I have to do it on my own or he’ll kill him, too. Someone has to live through this. I nearly didn’t. Potter tried to kill me. Severus says it probably won’t scar._

_It should scar. Someone should know that someone tried to stop me._

_Dumbledore’s dead._

_I couldn’t do it._

_I couldn’t._

_I wish he’d killed all of us._

Harry had to stop reading. He snapped the journal closed, and he looked away from it as guilt grabbed him by the back of the neck. How might everything have been different, if he’d shaken Draco’s hand back then? It didn’t bear thinking about.

He looked over to the letters Pansy had sent to Draco, and he sighed heavily before he reached out to take them in hand. Arranging them by date, he stood up from the writing table and flopped onto the bed, lighting the lamp on the nightstand and tucking himself under the blankets before he opened the first letter and began to read.

Pansy was such close friends with Draco that Harry felt incredibly guilty about not letting her come over, especially when he was so stressed. It would have done him some good, he thought. Maybe if he’d let Pansy come over, then Draco wouldn’t have let himself be caught.

Then again, who would Draco allow in the flat? Was his panic attack so intense that he’d invited one of the other Slytherins, or even a stranger from the street? He hadn’t been corresponding with anyone but Pansy in the time that he’d been staying there, and he’d scoffed at the idea of talking to anyone else. “I’ve been on probation, and half of them are in Azkaban anyway. Who am I going to write to? She’s my best friend, so I’m perfectly content just writing to her,” he’d said to Ginny one morning over breakfast while Harry poked at his bacon.

Pansy hadn’t written since Draco left. Why? Wasn’t she worried that she hadn’t heard from him in weeks? They corresponded several times a week.

Harry turned to the last letter, sent when they were in Spain, and he read it over with a slight frown.

_It is killing me that I can’t help you through this M. thing. I wish that you would tell your Aurors to let me in so I could sit with you. We could plot up a hundred different ways to give them the slip and run to Brazil or something. We were just meant to be tan. You could learn to surf and grow your hair long, and I could have a following of beach boys trying to knock me up and run._

_That sounds like the life compared to what we’ve been doing, doesn’t it?_

_Please talk to your Aurors. If you’re in London, I want to see you. I’ll bring you an ice cream._

“I want to see you,” Harry murmured to himself, and he sat up abruptly. “ _I want to see you._ ”

Fuck.

Gathering the letters quickly in his hands, Harry stumbled drunkenly out of bed and ran into the living room, pointing his wand at the fireplace. “ _Incendio!_ ” he roared, and he threw a handful of Floo powder into the flames. “Kingsley Shacklebolt!” He thrust his head through the green fire and looked around Kingsley’s den. “Kingsley? _Kingsley?!_ ”

He could hear footsteps from elsewhere in the house, and he clambered through the fire so he could leap out into the room to meet him. The man came into the den in his dressing gown, blinking at Harry in confusion. “Are you drunk?”

Harry ignored the question and thrust the letters into Kingsley’s hands. “Pansy Parkinson,” he said excitedly. “He was writing to Pansy. She stopped writing, she took him, Kingsley! Read the last one! Read it!”

Kingsley took the letters thrust into his hands, blinking at Harry for a moment before he fell back and sat down on the nearest armchair, taking the last piece of parchment in hand and skimming over it. “This is dated the day that he disappeared,” he said quietly. “I thought she said that she was out of the country.”

“She only just came back to her house a few weeks ago, didn’t she? Zabini crawled out of your ass saying she was back, right? We have to go, we have to get her and interrogate her. She’s got to know _something_ , doesn’t she?”

Kingsley looked up at Harry. “First thing in the morning, we’re having a meeting. We’ll go speak to her as soon as we’ve read these over. If she knows something, then we’ll get it out of her.” He looked Harry over. “Go home and go to bed so we can work on this in the morning. I’ll read these over tonight and see what I’ve got for you in the morning.”

“But—”

“Harry, you look like shit. Go home. You’re going to distract me.” He paused for a moment. “And take a fucking shower before you come in tomorrow. You’re not going anywhere like that.”

 

 

Harry was practically quaking with pent-up energy standing behind Kingsley when Pansy Parkinson opened the door to her home. She didn’t look surprised to see them at all and simply stood aside so they could enter, and Harry followed Kingsley and Pansy down the hallway to her sitting room. He had thought that she would have a grander home, but it seemed that all Slytherins didn’t live in such opulence as the Malfoy Manor. He had half-expected to come upon her in a lavish study, stroking a cat and grinning wickedly at them; instead, she just looked worried.

“This is about Draco, isn’t it?” she asked quietly as she sat down in a chair near the empty fireplace. “I saw in the papers that he’s gone missing. Scamander had better have a good explanation for why he would do something like classify Draco as a magical creature; it’s positively moronic. This was bound to happen.” She wrung her hands in her lap, and Harry stared at her.

She’d tried to give him up to Voldemort in the final battle of the war, but he didn’t blame her for that. How many deaths might have been prevented if he’d gone when he was called instead of waffling about the castle? She was refusing to look at him.

“I didn’t even know where he was staying. We were all so worried.”

Harry, Kingsley, Ron, and Williamson took their seats around the room; Harry didn’t trust himself to speak, but Kingsley didn’t have such reservations. “Yes, this is about Draco Malfoy. You were corresponding with him in the weeks leading up to his capture, and the content of your letters seems to indicate that you had some idea of where he was staying. You are our primary person of interest.”

“As M.?” Pansy lifted her head and stared at him, obviously flabbergasted. “I’m not old enough for all of that. The case is nearly as old as I am, isn’t it? How was I meant to traffic dangerous creatures across Europe as a toddler, exactly?” She shook her head. “Besides, I haven’t been writing to him. I don’t think so, anyway. Everything’s a bit fuzzy since Wales.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and he tried to catch her eyes even as she carefully avoided his gaze. “Fuzzy?” he asked. “What, like you don’t remember anything?”

Pansy hesitated for a moment. “I seem to remember some things, but they’re strange. I remember little things, like I remember playing with Crups and eating dinner several times, but I don’t remember anyone else being there. What did my letters to Draco say?” Her eyes flickered towards the documents in Kingsley’s hands—copies, of course—and she reached out a hand for them.

Kingsley leaned forward and handed them over. “We don’t think that you’re behind the things twenty years ago, Parkinson, and to be honest, I’m not particularly inclined to finger you for what’s going on now, but you are a person of interest. I think that you might be able to point us in the right direction.”

There were several long minutes of silence as Pansy began to read over the letters, her brow creased. “It’s my handwriting,” she said as she looked them over. “It is, I know it is, but I don’t remember writing any of this. These are things I feel like I would have said.” She shook her head in confusion, and she pressed a hand against her forehead. “I don’t understand.”

“She’s been Obliviated,” Ron whispered, and Harry nodded his head in agreement. He could see the pain in her eyes as she searched for clues in her own writing and tried to remember. “We’re going to need a Healer for this.”

Kingsley hummed low in his throat. “Miss Parkinson, are you willing to come to St. Mungo’s to see someone about restoring your memories? It’s a hell of a process, but if they can manage to do it, you could very well be the key to finding him again.”

Pansy nodded her head, still reading the pages. “Yes, of course,” she said quietly. “I keep talking about places I’m seeing in these. Have you looked at them? Box-castles and ruins and all?”

“That’s our next initiative. We’re going to take care of that while you’re in St. Mungo’s. The Department will cover any costs you incur, of course, since it’s our request.”

Pansy didn’t put up any sort of fight; she was frank and honest with them, open to helping with the investigation, and Harry watched her go into the Mind Healer’s office at the hospital with a soft sigh. People really did change, though he supposed that he would have done anything to get his closest friends back even if it meant cooperating with people he didn’t particularly like. Pansy had endured her trials and her probation with nothing less than a sense of resignation, and even now she looked defeated.

The war really had fucked all of them up. It was hard to reconcile this image of Pansy Parkinson with that of the pug-faced girl who’d harassed him throughout his teenaged years. Only once had she met his eyes, and he’d seen regret there in the moment before the door was closed behind her. Harry wanted to get her friend back for her.

“It always comes back to Slytherins, doesn’t it?” Ron asked as they waited for Kingsley to come back out of the office; he’d followed Pansy in to listen to the prognosis. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever be rid of them.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders and leaned against the wall. “I don’t mind it so much,” he admitted. “They’re half-decent when they’re not being stirred up by Voldemort. We were just kids then, Ron. We’re all growing up.”

“I guess so. Still, I never thought I’d be seeing Parkinson off to hospital and hoping that everything came out okay. D’you reckon they’ll be able to do something about it?”

Harry frowned at the office door. “If not here, then surely someone in Spell Damage can do something about it. You’re supposed to be able to bring memories back if you know how to trigger them, right? That’s what these people do.”

“Malfoy’s going to be in here for months, I bet, once we find him. This sort of thing drives people mad.” Ron hesitated for a moment, long enough that Harry looked back at him questioningly. “You do know that, right? I know you’re mates with him and all, but he’s going to need to see somebody. Ginny reckons he’s going to be staying with you again. Can’t say I’d blame him if he did.”

Harry sighed, and he raked a hand back through his hair. “Yeah, I know it. I’ll be keeping an eye on him. He’s bad enough when he’s sane, right?” He tried to smile, feeling his stomach clench. “I just hope it hasn’t made him beyond help.”

“He’s certifiable as he usually is. I don’t envy you bringing him home.”

Kingsley came out of the office after several minutes, and he nodded his head. “She’s been Obliviated, all right, for a pretty big chunk of time as far as they can figure. The Healer’s calling someone from Spell Damage up for a consultation, and she says it’s going to be at least a week before they can hope to get anywhere with it. It was well done, but M. didn’t get everything, I think. Parkinson says she’s never played with Crups in her life.”

Harry sighed and shoved his glasses up his nose. “A week? Is there any way they can move a bit faster? It’s life-and-death, isn’t it?”

“These sorts of things take time to work out. In the meantime, we can work on identifying those places that Pansy was talking about in her letters. I’ve had Proudfoot on it all day, so hopefully he’ll have something for us to look at before the end of the day. In the meantime, you should study.” Kingsley was already walking towards the exit, and Harry gaped at him in his wake.

“ _Study?_ How the hell am I supposed to be study—”

“It’s an order, Potter. If you want to be an Auror, you’ve got to sit your exams. I won’t have you failing any of them just because you’re wrapped up in a case that everyone is working on. It’s your job. Do it.”

Harry stared at the back of Kingsley’s head, biting his tongue. It was his job, yes—for the time being. He just didn’t see the point of sitting the exams when all he wanted to do was run as far as he could manage from his position.

 

*

Working with the best Mind Healers at St. Mungo’s wasn’t making Pansy feel any better about regaining her memories. The Healer assigned to her from Spell Damage was a constant presence, and everyone kept reminding her of how important it was that she remember what had happened as though she wasn’t fully aware of it. Draco was her best friend, he was in danger, and she knew that she was the key to finding him.

She didn’t like Potter very much; no one could blame her for that. Her call to hand him over to the Dark Lord in her seventh year hadn’t been because she hated the bloke (though really, she did), but because she’d wanted to avoid as many people dying as she possibly could. As a result, the Slytherins had been sent away from the battle, and so few of them got to prove themselves in the fight. They weren’t all Death Eaters, thank you very much; she certainly hadn’t been. She’d just wanted everyone to be all right.

Now, she wanted Draco to be all right, and every passing minute that her memory eluded her was a minute that he was spending in grave danger. It kept her up at night. Potter came in all the time to check on her, at least twice a day, and it had been six days when she finally sat up at his entrance and folded her hands under her chin. “Why are you doing this, Potter? Trying to save Draco?”

He looked annoyed at the question when he sat down on the chair, and he shrugged his shoulders. “It’s my job,” he said, but she didn’t believe him for a minute. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was so jittery that she supposed he must have consumed an entire container of coffee. He wasn’t sleeping, either.

“It’s not your job to kill yourself over it. The other Aurors look alive.” She crossed her ankles and smoothed down her skirt with her hands. “He was staying with you, wasn’t he? And Ginny left, I read that in the Prophet. Did he have something to do with that?”

Harry looked horrified, and she didn’t blame him for that; she was, after all, prying very deeply into his private life. “Ginny leaving doesn’t have anything to do with Draco, Parkinson. I don’t know where you got that idea.”

“Draco, is it? Since when? I don’t think you ever called him that once when we were in school.”

“We’re adults now. House rivalries hardly mean anything in the real world.” He sounded like he almost believed it, but she’d heard him call her ‘Parkinson’ just a moment ago. A smile lit up her face, and she leaned back a little.

“You’re protesting an awful lot, _Harry_. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you cared about him.” The stunned look on his face confirmed her suspicions, and she grinned at him. “Dare I say it, I think you might even fancy him. Not that I blame you, he’s a fit bloke if there ever was one. You two were stuck together for months, weren’t you? Holed up in your flat? Anybody can find common ground like that.”

His eyes narrowed at her, and she waved a hand at him, still unable to wipe the grin from her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said firmly. “We’re friends, nothing more.”

“I think he always carried a torch for you, even when he didn’t realise it. You were the main topic of conversation for years. ‘Potter this, fucking Potter that, don’t you know how I hate that sod Potter?’ Talk about protesting too much,” she said, trying to rile him now; a thrill of delight went through her when he turned pink around the ears. “Blaise and I had a pool going over who would give in first. It’s still going.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, on his feet. “I don’t give a damn what you lot have riding on anything. We’re mates, that’s all, and I’m trying to keep him from getting killed. I should hope you have the same fucking thing in mind, because we don’t know how long it’s going to take for M. to get tired of him and sell him to someone in Sri Lanka. The window could be closing, you understand?”

“Threatening me isn’t going to get anyone anything, Potter.” She shook her head and sighed, and she really did feel awful about it. “I want him back, too. He can stay with me, if he wants, when you get him back. You will, I know you will.” She looked up at him then, and she smiled a little. “You’re doing a lot for him. I respect that, you know.”

Harry seemed to settle down at that, and he sat back down in his chair, raking a hand back through his hair and looking up at the ceiling as though it could help him. “Thanks, Pansy,” he said. “He can do whatever he wants when he gets back, after we make sure he’s all right. You’re going to remember, so I expect we’ll have him home in a few days, yeah? We can forget all about this.”

“Sounds good, Harry.”

He left after they ran through their usual routine—he tried to prompt her memory, and she just shook her head in pained confusion—and left her with her Healers. Bringing back Obliviated memories was a tricky business, dependent on the strength of the caster and the intent, and M. had certainly done the job well. She supposed that it must be something one had to do a lot in the trade. Regardless of how she felt about the procedures, they assured her that they were close to reversing the damage, and she slept a little easier that night.

When she woke up the morning of the seventh day, she sat up abruptly and drew her blankets tightly around her, looking quickly from side to side. She wasn’t in the basement, she was in St. Mungo’s. No one was there to force her to eat, and no one was there to force her to write.

“Call the Aurors,” she gasped as her Mind Healer came in to check on her. “Potter, call Potter. _Now._ ”

 

 

The week of Pansy Parkinson’s treatment in St. Mungo’s was a busy one for the Auror Office. The letters she’d written to Draco when he was staying at Harry’s flat were analysed for anything that could possibly be taken as a clue to her location, and every single one of them pointed to Lorrha, Ireland. Unfortunately, there was no evidence to suggest that M.’s home was actually in town, so many of the Aurors were scouting around outside the village while others were occupied with learning everything they could from the villagers.

Harry was a part of the latter team, much to his chagrin; he found himself sitting in one of the local pubs and nursing a beer, listening to talk at the bar. He wasn’t drinking for once; Pansy was supposed to start remembering soon, and he needed to be sharp for when she told them where to go. It was early in the day for beer, but that didn’t seem to be deterring any of the old men bantering around him. They had acknowledged his presence several times, but he wasn’t a part of the conversation.

“Yer awful young, boy, to be getting’ pissed before noon.” He looked up to see two of them staring expectantly at him, and he gave them a pained smile.

“Some things I reckon you’ve got to drink away,” he said. “Got a friend who’s gone missing, somewhere ‘round here I think. Have you seen anything weird around here? Or shit, have you seen a blond bloke who looks like he’s got something shoved too far up his arse to be comfortable?” There was a round of laughter, and he smiled before he pretended to take another drink of his pint.

“Nothin’ more strange than usual. Lots o’ strange happenin’s ‘round the Shannon, always have been. No poncy strangers, either, ‘cept you.” There was more laughter, and Harry sighed.

“Harry.” The door to the pub had banged open, and Ron was coming in quickly. Harry was on his feet in an instant. “Harry, Pansy was calling for you, but Williamson went ahead to meet with her.”

“ _Williamson_?! This is my—”

Ron shoved a piece of parchment under his nose, and he snatched it from him. “They didn’t want to interrupt you. He came back with this.”

Sketched onto the parchment in ink was a stone fence in a yard, very high, over which the tops of several hills could be seen. _Harry, I saw hills over the top of the fence. There are wards, and it’s Unplottable. M. is an older woman. The property was huge, so look for a big, open space—somewhere big enough for dragons to live. I saw Lorrha when she Imperiused me into town once to fetch ink, and I know that it was about an hour’s walk on the roads. Good luck, Pansy._

Harry looked up at Ron for a moment before he whipped around and looked between the older men at the bar. “Do you lot know of any older women who live about an hour’s walk from here? Owns lots of land?”

“Yer lookin’ fer Widow Merricamp. Odd, that one.”

“Can you tell us how to get there?”

Twenty minutes later, Harry, Ron, Williamson, Kingsley, and a number of others from both the Aurors and the greater Department of Magical Law Enforcement were standing at the base of a driveway that led to nothing but an enormous green field and a broken-down cabin. Harry could feel magic crackling in the air and it made his skin itch; it was everything he could do to stand still and keep himself from running full-out into the wards.

“I don’t know the nature of this set of wards,” Kingsley said as he waved his wand, and the excitement in his voice was very nearly visible. “There are charms to make it Unplottable and conceal it from any who aren’t attuned to it, but I don’t know what else. I suspect that we have very little time before this place and everyone in it disappears; I’m certain that we have been announced.”

Harry felt the beginnings of panic, and he waved his wand to try to identify any wards that Kingsley couldn’t; he could see Ron and the others doing the same. When he could pull up nothing, he took a deep breath. “What do we do?” he asked.

“In a time-sensitive case?” Kingsley looked over at Harry. “Brute force. Someone get St. Mungo’s on stand-by.”

Harry had never seen Kingsley act in a manner that wasn’t fully thought-out, and so he watched as the man stepped forward to cast the first spell. They all collectively held their breaths, expecting the wards to react violently to the first touch of magic against it; instead, the spell soared through the barrier, and there were several seconds of silence.

Then, a woman started to scream, and it was unlike any sound Harry had ever heard. Feeling as though a ghost had walked through him, he drew back his wand and cast the second spell.

 

 

Draco sat up sharply as he felt magic ripple dangerously around him, blinking in confusion and fear. He had been under the effects of the Imperius Curse again, he knew that much, and he looked around himself; both he and Li were shoved into a single cage, and he was eternally grateful that he hadn’t come to while he was taking commands from Madam. Li was sleeping next to him in the dirty straw, her face filthy and her hand curled into the rough fabric of his shirt. “Li,” he hissed. “Li, wake up.”

Her eyes opened, and when she looked up to him, he could see how the Amortentia tainted her gaze. She smiled a dreamy smile and touched his hand. “Draco, what is it, darling?” she asked, voice very much different than how it was when the potion’s effects had worn off. “Go back to sleep.”

“Something’s wrong.” As if on cue, there was a sharp, clear scream from outside. It was high-pitched and unwavering, and Draco shuddered with fear as he whispered, “That’s the banshee.” Someone was going to die, and there were only so many someones on the property. How had the Silencing Charm been broken?

The door at the top of the stairs slammed open and Madam ran down them; Draco leapt across the cage and wrapped his hands around the bars. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Let us out of here!”

“Shut up, you daft boy.” Madam’s voice was full of venom as she worked, waving her wand towards the creatures caged nearby. There was a sound of metal on metal, and the doors to the cages began to swing open—all but the door to the one holding Draco and Li prisoner. “Stay put and keep quiet.”

A number of the freed creatures saw their chance to escape and took it, rushing up the stairs and onto the ground floor of the home. Others stayed put, and Draco watched as Madam headed back for the stairs with her wand in hand. “What’s happening?” he asked after her.

“Just some pests at the door.” She slammed the door behind her, and Draco fell back from the bars.

People were there.

Harry had come to get him.

It was hard to feel hope when the banshee was wailing outside, and he cursed it quietly under his breath before he turned to Li and hauled her onto her knees by her arms. She blinked at him and smiled, and he shook her. “Listen, Li,” he whispered. “Listen to me. Harry has come to get us, do you understand? It’s all over. We’re going to be rescued, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Draco.” She leaned forward to rest her forehead against his shoulder, and he growled with frustration. She was going to be impossible to deal with so long as the love potion ran through her veins.

“Do you know any wandless magic? Can you try to open this cage with me?”

“Anything you want, Draco.”

She turned from his shoulder and focused on the lock, and he nodded to her. “On three, okay? Ready? One, two, three.” He closed his eyes and tried to call forth his own magic, but he found that nothing came to him. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Li looking perplexed, and he nudged her with an elbow. “We have to keep trying!”

“Yes, Draco.”

 

 

The screaming never stopped, and it was frazzling Harry’s nerves. Someone had said that it was a banshee, and he remembered from his classes at Hogwarts that banshees were the heralds of death. When one started screaming, then it was a certainty that someone around was going to die, and he was absolutely terrified of the thought. What if it was Ron? What if it was Draco, or Kingsley? What if it was _him_?

The wards weren’t putting up an enormous fight, suggesting that Widow Merricamp never anticipated being traced this far, and when he felt magic shuddering around them and giving way to spells meant to batter it down, he was preparing himself for the worst. Kingsley shouted for them to prepare themselves, and Harry stood back when the man summoned up his energy and cast a glaring red spell at the empty green field.

There was a loud rumble, and magic crackled in the air before the wards gave in all at once, and an enormous property appeared before them. It was lined in a large stone fence, just as Pansy’s sketch had shown, and a cacophony of sound roared in their ears as magical creatures took to the air. Most notable were the dozens of dragons of all types, stretching their wings and roaring as they took to the air, but Harry’s eyes were on the gate.

Standing just inside the gate was Draco Malfoy, looking for all the world as though he belonged there. He looked well, hair neatly styled and chin smooth, and he was smiling at them. “It took you long enough,” he drawled, and Harry felt a sharp pang of desire that was entirely out of place. Grey eyes met his, and Harry took a step forward. “I made quick work of her for you. Won’t you come in?”

Draco twirled the wand in his hand and cast a spell on the gate; it sprung open, and the team of Aurors rushed forward. Harry ran to Draco in the stampede, and he grabbed him by the shoulders. “Draco,” he whispered, and he looked him in the eyes. “Draco, where is she?” It was the only thing he could think to ask, the only thing that could keep him from snatching him by the chin and kissing him right in front of everyone.

Draco regarded him with cool amusement and pulled his arms free. “Inside. I stunned her in the dining room. Let’s go get her, shall we?” He leaned a little closer, and Harry’s stomach turned over. “Then we can go home, can’t we?”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

Draco’s hand slid into Harry’s, and they ran together with the team into the house. “This way, this way,” Draco insisted, directing them down the corridor and to the left, into the large dining room. “All of you, you’ll all need to help.” He ushered them into the dining room, and just before Harry turned to follow everyone in, Draco held him back for a moment. “Not you. Harry…”

The door slammed shut behind Ron, and Harry gave a start, turning to stare at it. He heard a whispered spell behind him, and he whipped around to regard Draco with wide eyes. “Draco, what—”

Draco’s wand was suddenly at his throat, and he backed up against the wall. “I always wanted to meet you, Harry Potter; it’s a shame about your Muggleborn mother, isn’t it? You might’ve been perfect otherwise. Pity that you’ve gone through so much and you’ll find your end here.”

Harry sucked in a shaking breath, and he smelled smoke. Someone inside the dining hall yelled out, and he could feel powerful spells being cast; he reached for his wand, and was immediately disarmed. His wand clattered across the hardwood floor, and he stared into Draco’s eyes. “You’re not—”

“You Aurors are useless,” not-Draco laughed wildly, and he turned to run down the corridor. Harry sprang for his wand and turned to give chase, his footsteps echoing on the walls around him, and he turned the corner only to be greeted with a small, snarling dragon with copper scales and fangs that dripped with something that was burning through the floorboards.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” he yelled out, scrambling backward, and he dimly registered that the spell bounced harmlessly off the dragon’s scales. It let loose an ear-splitting roar that made his ears ring; he ran back the way he’d come as it gave chase.

It was fast, and Harry cast spells over his shoulder as he ran for the dining room. The smell of smoke was pervasive now, and he heard a collective, “ _Confringo!_ ” in the second before the door burst apart and those who’d been led in rushed out with flames at their backs. “Try to contain the fire!” Kingsley yelled.

“ _Dragon!_ ” Harry barked at them, and the Aurors seemed to turn as one to regard what Harry recognised as a Peruvian Vipertooth. The small dragon’s lips were drawn back, and it raised its wings before it leapt at them.

Harry had no experience in fighting dragons, and he came to quickly know that it was a nasty business. Sharp claws and venomous fangs lashed out at the group, and he dimly registered that someone was screaming. There was blood on the floor, and the fire in the dining room was threatening to spread to join the flames that the dragon was producing.

Harry yelled out in shock as it reared and its claws tore into his left arm, ripping the fabric of his robes. Blood welled in the deep gouges, and he stumbled backward. “Lead it out of here! Get it out of the house!” he called.

Williamson took up the task, cursing the dragon to get its attention and running down the hallway towards the door they’d come through. It chased after him, and Harry looked around himself at the other fighters. One of the Aurors had been knocked out, and one of the DMLE wizards was nursing dangerously deep gouges across his chest. “Ron, get them out of here,” he hissed. “I have to find Draco.”

Kingsley was running in the direction where the dragon had come from, and Harry heard Ron dragging the injured away behind him as he followed along behind his department head. Smoke was pouring from several doorways now, and he could hear windows exploding; it was unnaturally hot in the house, and Harry knew that he didn’t have much time. He followed Kingsley, blowing open doors on his way to find empty room after empty room, flames licking at the walls.

“What is it you’ve come for, Potter?”

“Are you looking for your dear Draco Malfoy?”

“He’s dead already.”

Every time the voice whispered near his ear, Harry whipped around to see no one there, and he steeled himself against it so he could ignore it. This corridor was empty, and he ran into the next to see Kingsley and who he could only assume was Widow Merricamp Polyjuiced into Draco, firing hexes at one another.

Harry wanted to join in on the fight, he really did, but he had to find Draco. The house was burning down, and it was big enough that he needed to get moving. “Go, Potter!” Kingsley yelled at him, and he turned away to follow the hallway in the other direction with hexes sizzling against the walls in his wake.

He heard more windows shattering, and he heard a loud crack as wood broke; he felt sick to his stomach, and he started destroying the next set of doors. “ _Draco!?_ ” he yelled out, over and over, and he performed the Bubble-Head Charm on himself to keep from inhaling too much smoke.

“Draco, _where are you?!_ ”

He rounded another corner and found that it had led him back to the front hall, where Williamson was engaged with the dragon and unable to get the door open to lead it outside. He’d hit it with the Conjunctivitus Curse, and it was thrashing blindly at him; that only seemed to make it more dangerous, and Harry yelled out in shock when it sank its curved claws into the man’s neck. There was a spray of blood before he sank limply to the ground.

“ _Sectumsempra!_ ” he screamed, and the dragon roared as its flesh split apart and blood poured forth from the wounds. Williamson was very clearly dead, his head nearly torn from his body, and Harry tore his eyes from him before he turned and regarded a creature he’d only read about but had never seen.

It was a manticore, with a handsome, smiling face and a scorpion’s stinger ready to strike. Harry raised his hands and took a step back. “I’m just looking for my friend,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The manticore made a soft, inhuman sound and began to sing, advancing on Harry; Harry felt his eyelids droop a little, and he found that he wanted to step forward into those inviting arms. “I can show you where your friend lies,” the manticore trilled, and Harry opened his mouth to reply before he closed it and took a half-step forward. The stinger hovering over the man’s shoulder dripped clear fluid.

“Harry, no!” Ron’s voice cut through his stupor. He looked over just in time to be shoved out of the way. “Go, find him! I’ll take care of this!”

The house shuddered, and Harry tried to shake off his trance as he left Ron to the manticore, searching doors. Finally, he came upon a door that opened to a flight of stairs, and he threw himself down them and into smoke so thick that he recast his Bubble-Head Charm, and he squinted in the darkness.

“ _Lumos!_ ”

 

 

The smell of smoke was faint at first, and Draco thought that maybe someone had set some drapes in the room overhead on fire. His and Li’s attempts at wandless magic were proving to be entirely fruitless, and they’d fallen back in the cage to speak to one another in hushed voices.

“You’re going to take me with you, if we’re rescued? Won’t you, Draco?” She sounded so desperate, fear in her eyes, and Draco wanted to vomit. He touched her arm and nodded his head.

“We wouldn’t leave you behind, I promise.” He couldn’t. He had no affection for her, but she had been there throughout this ordeal so far, and in their moments of clarity, she had been so afraid. They were going to need a long stint at St. Mungo’s, he knew, and then she could go home. So could he.

Li had been nothing but kind to him even when the potion in her veins had been metabolised and she had been horrified at what they were forced to do. Draco wasn’t even capable of looking within himself to see how he truly felt about what he had been through, and he suspected that it wasn’t over yet. It couldn’t be so easy as to end with some burned drapes and a team of Aurors, could it? The banshee was still screaming, and that meant that someone here was going to die.

“What do we do?” Li lifted her face towards the ceiling, and Draco knew that she smelled the smoke, too. There were frenzied footfalls on the floor above them, and a dragon roared somewhere within the house; Draco’s blood ran cold, and he shivered as Li threw herself into his arms in fear.

He didn’t know the answer to that question. He didn’t even know if those above them were Aurors or simply volatile traders working with Madam, and he knew that they may well be stuck down here for years, clutching at one another in the dark and praying for it to be over. Under the Imperius Curse, he had been forced to attempt to sire a child with the woman in his arms that he didn’t even really know, and if they weren’t being rescued, then they would surely succeed soon enough if they had not already done so.

He didn’t know how long they’d been here. The days ran together, a blur of soft suggestions and flesh made willing by an illegal potion, and he thought that he would rather die than spend another day ruining his and Li’s minds. “We wait,” he said softly, and he took one of her hands. “Listen to me. You would do anything for me, right?”

Li looked up at him and smiled, and she nodded her head. “Anything you ever asked, my Draco.”

He nodded his head and did not elaborate, just holding onto her for the moment. If it came down to it, he would ask her to strangle him to death the moment that M. descended the stairs to recast the Imperius Curse, and it would be ended. She could go home, and he could just go to sleep.

The smoke was growing thicker by the moment, and he could hear windows breaking overhead. Whatever was happening wasn’t going well, and it was making the creatures in the basement nervous. The mermaid had lifted her torso out of the water and was staring upward, and the minotaur was grumbling to itself in low tones, rustling in the corner. The Quintaped scuttled around the room, making squeaking sounds from its mouth, and Draco pulled out of Li’s arms to go to the door of the cage.

“I-it’s going to be all right,” he said, and the mermaid looked over at him with a sceptical expression. “No, it really will be. Don’t worry.”

There was another roar above them, and the sound of glass breaking was much closer now. He swallowed hard and tried to take a deep breath, but he coughed roughly as he inhaled a lungful of black smoke. “Get down,” he instructed to Li, and he lay flat on his belly. “Breathe into your shirt.”

Any moment now, someone would come for them.

The smoke was starting to fuck with his head, and he felt tired as he coughed again. Where had all the smoke come from? The house made a sound that was particularly ominous, and he heard a loud _bang_ from the staircase and a great deal of yelling in the distance.

“ _She’s Apparated! The Apparition wards are down! GO!_ ”

Draco lifted his head and scrambled onto his knees, pulling his shirt over his nose, as he heard footsteps rushing down the stairs, and he grabbed onto the cage door to shake it violently. “Get me out of here!”

Through the haze of smoke came Harry’s face and hands, and Draco choked. “Harry.”

“ _The house is coming down! Everyone get out of here, now!_ ”

“Hold tight,” Harry said quickly, and he lifted his wand to wave it at the lock the moment before there was a deep, bellowing roar, and the minotaur rushed forward. Harry vanished again into the thick cloud of smoke, and Draco heard nothing but a quick scuffle and a muffled spell being cast; there was a flash of red light through the smoke, and Draco started to scream Harry’s name.

When Harry returned a moment later, he was bleeding from his head and his glasses were broken, but he cast _Alohomora_ at the cage door. Nothing happened, and Draco rattled the bars, realising that he was doing so alone. He turned his head to see that Li was unconscious, and he heard the house groan loudly, could see fire encroaching through the smoke. He reached through the bars and grabbed onto Harry’s sleeve.

“Don’t let me die here, Harry. Please.”

Their eyes met through the bars and through the haze, and Harry got a look of resolve that Draco had only ever seen when he was fighting Voldemort. He lifted his wand again and began to cast through every unlocking charm that he knew, and when Draco heard the latch click over, he felt lightheaded.

Harry grabbed the cage door and hauled it open, and Draco felt a frenzy that he’d never felt even in his sixth year. “Harry, Harry, oh my god,” he choked out, and when he flung himself into Harry’s arms, he crushed their mouths together in a desperately grateful kiss. He felt Harry tense for a brief moment, and then he relaxed, and Draco thought that he was going to faint.

“ _Potter, are you down there?!_ ”

Harry wrenched his mouth from Draco’s and wrapped his arm around his waist. “We have to go. _Now._ ”

“Wait, Li—”

There was an almighty roar, and Draco heard himself screaming in the moment before everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 and the Epilogue will be posted tomorrow, Monday 14 October.
> 
> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/64457.html).


	4. The Thrill of the Hunt: Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Draco Malfoy is named the last surviving pureblooded wizard in Europe, a mysterious underworld trader and collector known as M. takes an interest in adding him to a true world-class collection of dangerous magical creatures. Harry Potter must juggle the last of his Auror training, a failing relationship with Ginny Weasley, and a growing issue with alcoholism while managing to keep Draco from being captured and trying to follow a decades-old trail which will lead to the identity and location of M. before it's too late.

***Part Four***

_It’s when we start working together that the real healing takes place. It’s when we start spilling our sweat, and not our blood._

_David Hume_  


Ron really wasn’t all that invested in the case. He saw everyone around him going bonkers over it, of course, but he couldn’t find it in himself to really care if they found M.—Widow Merricamp, or Madam, as Malfoy called her—and saved Malfoy’s life. He wanted Harry to be happy, of course, and he knew that solving it would make Harry happier than anything; however, he was more focused on everything else going on in his life. They were soon to take their licensing exams, and he wanted to pass with marks higher than anyone. He wanted to excel at them, to prove to everyone that he could be top in something.

He regretted all that now. He should have worked harder on the case, and they should have had time to better prepare for the raid instead of charging in. Williamson would still be alive, he thought, and Harry wouldn’t be in St. Mungo’s in a magically-induced coma. They would be taking their exams together. Instead, Harry was recovering, and Ron had sat the first of their exams alone that morning.

Every day, Ron went to St. Mungo’s after leaving the office, going into Harry’s room and confronting a very stark and horrible reality. Draco Malfoy would be there, half-starved to death and clearly mad, clutching Harry’s hand in his own and just staring silently at him. He looked completely fucked in the head, his eyes bloodshot and unmoving, and he looked as though he hadn’t bathed in months. He probably hadn’t.

The Healers had treated him for smoke inhalation, but he hadn’t let any of them get near him with a washcloth; Ron had seen him sneak an apple from one of the trays of food brought as though he had to hide it from anyone, and he’d tried to speak to him, honestly he had. Malfoy hadn’t said anything to anyone since he’d woken up in hospital, and from what Ron had heard, he’d gone immediately to Harry’s room and refused to leave his bedside other than to use the loo.

When Ron heard what was going on in Merricamp’s house, at least Kingsley’s version of events, he supposed that he would look just as fucked up as Malfoy did. Merricamp had escaped, though gravely injured by her duel with Kingsley, but she’d left an absolute mess behind. The house had burned down, collapsing in on itself, but the DMLE was working on picking through the rubble along with Kingsley and all available Aurors.

They’d found a body in the basement where Harry and Draco were, and when Kingsley had shown Malfoy a photograph, his face had collapsed and he’d locked himself in the loo for an hour. Ron saw that it was a girl, badly burned but distinguishable, and he didn’t have to wonder who she was. Merricamp had left evidence in her study that she meant to breed Malfoy with an Asian Pureblooded wizard in order to continue a Pureblood line that had an affinity with dragons. The girl’s family was known for their ability to work with dragons to the point that it was rumoured they could communicate with them in ways other wizards couldn’t. Kingsley thought that Merricamp would have sold the children to the highest bidder.

They’d found burned cauldrons with evidence of Amortentia, and when they’d checked the girl’s body, she was filled with it. It wasn’t hard to reason that she’d been fed it in order to develop an obsession with Malfoy. There hadn’t been any evidence of the potion in Malfoy’s blood, but he had the far-off look of someone who’d been under the Imperius Curse for extended periods, and he’d been ordered to see a Mind Healer. He hadn’t gone, but Ron reckoned he would once Harry woke up to talk some sense into him.

Ron had defeated the manticore easily enough in the house, and he’d chased after Harry to try to find Malfoy; he’d never forgive himself if Williamson got killed for nothing and Malfoy ended up dead, too. The house had been coming down around him, and everyone had been screaming for them to get out, but he’d followed Harry into the basement in time to see him dispatch a minotaur and unlock the cage Malfoy had been rattling.

He’d seen Malfoy leap into Harry’s arms and kiss him as though his life had depended on it, and he’d seen Harry start to kiss him back before the house started to fall in. Something that he didn’t think he’d ever forget happened when he saw one of the beams over the two of them fall, burning and heavy, and crush Harry, knocking Malfoy back against the cages. The worst of it was when the banshee stopped screaming, because when he grabbed both Malfoy and Harry by the wrists and Apparated with them as the house collapsed, he didn’t know if it was Harry who was dead.

He told himself then that if Harry woke up, he wouldn’t care that he’d started to kiss Malfoy back because nothing mattered in the face of his best mate’s death. Nothing at all.

The Healers said that Harry would be perfectly fine, but sometimes Ron looked at him and he wondered if he really would be. When the beam had fallen in and crushed him, it had been so hot and heavy that it had broken his back and burned an enormous swath across his back. It had melted right through the skin, and he had to lie on his stomach in the hospital bed in stasis. The wound was a horribly ugly thing, even as it was progressing through the healing stages; Ron knew that nonmagical burns usually healed without scarring under the Healers’ care, but he wondered if that would really be possible in this case. The skin was black and bubbled at first, but as they healed, they were scabbing over, thick and dark and hideous. Harry’s hair was mostly burned away, though it would grow back, and the gouges on his arm from the Peruvian Vipertooth had stopped oozing green pus the day before. That one would scar.

Ron thought that this was the sort of thing that would drive Malfoy away, the extensive wounds and ever-present blood, but he never left. He just clutched at Harry’s hand and stared at him, and it wasn’t something that he could pretend to understand.

Hermione had been in several times, and she’d tried to talk to Draco, to see how he was feeling, but he never even looked at her. She told Ron afterward that she thought that he was trying to lend Harry his magic, that sometimes people did that to help someone who was really hurt or in trouble, and that he probably wouldn’t break eye contact if he could help it. Ron remembered Professor Quirrell and how he’d had to maintain eye contact with Harry’s broom to jinx it in first year, and he’d stopped trying to get Malfoy’s attention after that.

Ron did see him break concentration once and only once outside of going to the loo. Ginny had come in the day before and she’d thrown her arms around Malfoy’s neck; he’d looked away from Harry and buried his face in her shoulder to cry raggedly against it, and Ron had left them to it. He didn’t want to watch Malfoy cry, not after what he’d been through, because then he would have felt guilty because he hadn’t done all he possibly could to save him sooner and prevent this.

Ginny knew that he’d seen Malfoy kissing Harry at Merricamp’s place, because he’d sputtered it out to her and Hermione the night it had happened. He didn’t understand why Ginny didn’t look surprised, and he definitely didn’t understand why she’d gone to St. Mungo’s and hugged Malfoy like he was someone very important to her. Hermione said that Ginny had thought that Malfoy and Harry were a good fit for each other, that she’d caught them curled up on the couch together on more than one occasion, and that she would have been fine with it if they came out of hospital and decided that it was worth a shot. Hermione hadn’t seemed to understand that very well, either, but they’d agreed that they wouldn’t give Harry hell for it. If he pulled through, he deserved everything he wanted, even if that was Malfoy.

He thought that Ginny was being much more grown-up about it that he could have been, in her position; then again, she’d been living with them since February, and it was mid-June. Ron thought that Malfoy must have had the shittiest birthday of his life, so he deserved to have something he wanted, too.

Before they’d figured everything out, Harry had sat across from Ron in the pub, piss-drunk and angry, and he’d said that the war fucked them all up, that they had to grow together and move past it. When he saw Malfoy holding Harry’s hand and offering up his magic, or when he saw Pansy Parkinson chewing on her nails and fidgeting outside the door because she wanted to thank Harry but didn’t want to bother anyone, he thought that maybe he could grow together with some of the Slytherins. Ginny had, after all, and so had Harry.

It really bothered him that Merricamp had escaped. He didn’t suppose it bothered him half as much as it bothered Kingsley, but it did all the same. The thought of any of this happening again to anyone, not just his old classmates in St. Mungo’s, made him sick to his stomach, and he’d been allowed to write the last ad in the Prophet for the Auror Department.

He’d kept it simple.

_Disappear. This won’t be a problem again._

There hadn’t been a response yet, and Kingsley said that there probably wouldn’t be, not for a long time at least. So many of the creatures had escaped or been killed during the raid that it would take a very long time for Merricamp to rebuild, if she did at all. Now that they knew who she was and had a magical signature for her, it would be much more difficult to pull this sort of thing off again.

Ron was going to personally make sure it never happened again.

After his first round of licensing exams that morning, Ron came to St. Mungo’s and checked in at the front desk; they were used to him already, and so he went upstairs unimpeded. Parkinson was standing outside Harry’s room again, and he smiled at her. “Did you go in today?” he asked quietly, pausing to speak to her. She’d been very helpful, after all, and now she was being kept in St. Mungo’s for therapy. She said she didn’t want to go home yet, that it scared her to be on her own or just with Blaise, and the department had made sure that it wouldn’t be a problem for her.

She looked up and frowned. “I did,” she said quietly. “But I feel awful about it. Draco didn’t even notice I was there, and Potter…he looks awful, doesn’t he? Do you know then they’re going to take him out of it?”

Ron shook his head. “No. I suspect they will when they reckon he’ll be able to be awake and not screaming in pain. They don’t want him moving much right now, and I can’t say I blame them.” Ron shuddered and rubbed at his own back, not wanting to think about how much that sort of thing would hurt. “At least you went in. I’ll make sure someone tells you when he wakes up. You want to see Malfoy, yes?”

Pansy nodded, and Ron patted her shoulder. She jumped under the touch and looked at him with a hunted expression that vanished as soon as he recognised it, and he nodded his head encouragingly. She smiled, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Weasley,” she said. “And yes, I would rather like to see him. I led him astray, after all.”

“You did no such thing. You didn’t have a choice. He made his.” Ron left her to it and opened the door to Harry’s room, stepping inside and closing it behind himself. 

A Healer was in there with them, casting her spells over Harry’s back and talking to Malfoy, who was sitting back in his chair and staring at a jar of salve in his hands. He looked like a ghoul. “Rub your hand in clockwise, five centimetre circles and say the spell every ten circles. As for you, Mr Malfoy, I am going to bring you something to eat when I go on my break. You’re wasting away, and you’re not going to be any good to anyone if you’re dead.” She looked up from her lecture, and she smiled at Ron. “Mr Weasley, hello. He’s looking much better today. I think we will be able to wake him up tonight and see what he has to say.”

Ron smiled his first true smile in days, and he sat down in the chair next to Malfoy’s. “Brilliant. Is there anything that I need to do?” he asked, and he cast a sidelong glance at the jar in Malfoy’s hands.

“No, I don’t think so. Mind that you don’t try to touch him; Mr Malfoy won’t let anyone do it right now without getting a wand at their throats. Maybe you can figure out why.” She looked at Draco, who glanced at Ron and then looked back to Harry.

“Oh. All right. Should I be here when you try to wake him?” he asked.

The Healer shook her head and washed her hands in the sink. “No, please. When he first wakes, I don’t think that he’s going to want very many people around. It’s not going to be pleasant, I think, but we’ll do what we can to help numb him and keep him still. At this point, we need to make sure that the concussion he suffered when he fell didn’t have any lingering effects, and I think that maybe it will help convince Mr Malfoy to see his own Healers once he sees that Mr Potter is indeed going to be fine.”

She left soon after, and Ron watched as Malfoy got up from the chair and stood next to Harry’s bed. His hands shook as they opened the jar; he scooped out some of the salve, which smelled absolutely foul, and he pushed his hand through the magical barrier which sterilized anything that came through. His hand only steadied when he put the salve onto Harry’s back, rubbing it into the wound with the prescribed spell on his lips.

Malfoy didn’t even wince—Ron did, and he wasn’t even touching the wound—but he did look as though he might fall over at any moment. Ron could see him wavering on his feet, and he got up to swiftly catch Malfoy about the elbows when his knees gave way. “Blimey, Malfoy, you—”

Before Ron could even react, Malfoy had spun in his arms and was shoving at him, screaming and lashing out at him. “ _Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare fucking touch me!_ ” he shrieked, and Ron let him go as though he’d been scalded.

“I’m sorry! I was just trying to fucking help,” Ron said defensively, and he sat back down in his chair feeling as though he’d been punched in the gut. He may well have been. Malfoy went back to his task with hitched breath and violently trembling hands, and Ron bit his lip. He hadn’t even thought about it when he’d moved to grab him, as he’d seen Ginny hug Draco ‘round the neck and he’d been holding hands with Harry for days, but he supposed that he wouldn’t want to be touched either. Not after Lorrha. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t think about it.”

Malfoy really needed to see a Healer, not just for the fact that he was dead on his feet, but because he was clearly in need of enough therapy to suit a dozen men. The silence stretched between them, only broken by Malfoy’s whispered spells, and Ron watched as Harry’s skin reacted to the salve. It looked to be loosening the edges of the scabs, but when a small one fell off, Ron realised that it was restoring skin underneath. The skin was pink and fresh, and Malfoy smiled for the first time.

It was going to be a long road to recovery for both of them.

*

All Harry knew was blackness, and it was blissful. He hadn’t rested in ages, and he had a feeling that he wasn’t really resting, but this way, he didn’t have to think about anything. Sometimes, he wondered if he was dead again, but there was no train station, and no one was waiting to greet him.

He was aware of things happening around him early on, and it was then that he reckoned that he couldn’t be dead. There were voices, ones he recognised and ones he didn’t, and they were comforting and confusing all at once. Sometimes he could hear Ron and Hermione, and he was certain that he’d heard Ginny. There was someone holding his hand, and he didn’t have to wonder who that was. The moment he’d become somewhat aware of himself, he’d known that Draco was holding his hand, and he’d felt his presence within and around himself so keenly that he wondered what Draco was doing.

Magic that wasn’t his own was a constant presence, and some of it he knew belonged to Draco. He could feel it mingling with his own, feel it keeping both of them grounded, and he reached back because he could feel that Draco’s was unstable. They were keeping each other sane, there was no question of that. _It’s going to be okay._ The words played around in the blackness like music made visible, shining and comforting more than anything else.

Sometimes, he felt Draco’s hands on his shoulders and on his back, and he wondered what the purpose of that was. Everything was fine when they held hands.

Then, something began to change, and the blackness called to him to stay even though he suddenly couldn’t bear to think of doing so. He wanted to come out of it, back into the light, and he wanted to open his eyes and see what was happening to him; it was terrifying in the light, though it hadn’t been earlier, and he felt sick. Something was wrong. There was a reason he needed to stay in the dark.

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Harry opened his eyes and he tried to move, to run from the agony searing through his body, but he was restrained and he could only turn his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt his stomach turn, and there was bile in his throat the moment before he vomited and groaned, fingers grasping for something to hold onto.

He wanted to go back, to feel nothing. Anything would have been better than this.

He heard someone clean up the mess he’d made, and a familiar hand caught up his grasping fingers. His eyes opened again, and he saw Draco staring at him, looking like death. “Harry, you’re hurt,” he said quietly, and Harry wanted to laugh and say that he’d figured that much out for himself, thank you very much Malfoy. Instead, he choked out a cry, and he squeezed Draco’s hand until he thought his fingers would come off in his grip.

“Harry Potter.” There was another voice, one he didn’t know but recognised from his stint in the dark, and he tried to move to see who it belonged to. “You can’t move, I’m sorry. You were injured in the raid on Merricamp’s home, and you’re in St. Mungo’s recovering. You’re severely burned. Do you understand?”

He nodded his head, though he didn’t really understand. He didn’t remember getting burned. He remembered getting attacked by a bloody dragon and he remembered choking on smoke when Draco leapt into his arms and kissed him, but he didn’t remember anything after that. “Wh-what happened?” His voice sounded dreadful even to his own ears, and he coughed; it hurt so badly that he nearly passed out.

He could feel spells being cast over him, and the pain in his back eased somewhat. Draco looked away from him for a moment and he closed his eyes, wanting to die as a vial was pressed to his lips. “Drink.” Draco’s voice was soft and begged no questions; he drank, and the cold potion soothed him from the inside out. When he was able to open his eyes again, he shivered, and he looked Draco over.

He was filthy and looked as though he’d been hollowed out, his skin hanging off him and his eyes absurdly sunken. When was the last time he’d slept? Weren’t they in St. Mungo’s? “You look like shit,” he said, and he smiled.

“You’re one to talk. You’re not winning any pageants like this, Potter. Lucky for you, they say you’re going to make a full recovery and be back to getting yourself killed before you know it.”

Harry smiled weakly, the potion and the spells dulling his senses enough that he could really register what was going on around him. He had one of Draco’s hands, and he could feel the other rubbing against his back, though he couldn’t really feel his skin. He’d been burned, the Healer had said. “How?”

Draco sighed and shook his head. “Weasley said the ceiling fell in. The whole place burned down. I—” His voice cracked, and he steeled himself. “I don’t remember much. They had to treat me for smoke inhalation, fucked us both up. I just had some minor burns.” His eyes lifted to Harry’s hair, and he laughed in such a way that Harry thought he might break apart. “Your hair’s even worse than usual.”

“Have you been seeing Healers?” Harry knew that Draco needed someone to see to him, not just for his physical injuries but for his mental state. He didn’t get an answer, and he sighed softly. “Please go see them, Draco. Please. I’m stuck here, I can’t make you, but I’m asking.”

Draco met his eyes again and nodded his head. “I will.”

“Thank god.” Harry closed his eyes again, and when he opened them once more, he saw that Draco was asleep on the other bed in the room, and it was extremely dark outside. He closed them again, and when they opened a third time, it was mid-day and Draco’s curtains were drawn. He turned his head to rest against his other cheek on the pillow, and he blinked when he came face-to-face with Ron.

“Mate, you’re alive,” Ron said, sounding more than a little relieved, and Harry smiled weakly at him. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No.” Harry wanted to sit up, ached to move properly, and he tried to do so; he was incapable of even wiggling his shoulders, and he heaved a miserable sigh. “How’s it look?”

Ron looked at his back and winced; it hurt to laugh, but Harry did so anyway. “You’re pretty roughed up. It looks loads better every day, though. They’re taking right good care of you, but you don’t want to move around yet. They’ve got you on so many potions that you’re never going to want to look at one again after this, and they’ve got some mad spells around it. Apparently regrowing your skin’s a bit harder than bones. Who knew?”

Harry sighed and was quiet for a moment. He chewed on his lip, and he looked up at Ron, who shook his head and shoved his glasses onto his nose for him.

“I know what you’re thinking. He’s being seen to by a Mind Healer, has been for two days. You’ve been sleeping loads, which is good, I suppose. You’d be driven mad by it. They curtain off and put up Silencing Charms, and Malfoy comes out afterward looking like he’s cried his eyes out the whole time. Probably has.” He didn’t look as though he found this funny, and for that, Harry was eternally grateful. “He’s pretty fucked, Harry. He won’t let anyone but you and Gin touch him, and he’s not spoken to anybody but you and his Healers, as far as I know. I caught him from hitting the ground the other day and he went mental. No one else has tried.”

Harry winced. “Do you know what happened to him at Merricamp’s?” he asked, his stomach queasy.

“Oh, yeah. He was Imperiused most of the time, they think, and she was forcing him to, you know, with a Pureblood from China. She’s dead now, died in the fire. He’s been really sick since you woke up, sleeping almost as much as you, and when he’s awake, he’s dreadful. I don’t think he should be leaving hospital any time soon.”

Harry turned his head back towards Draco’s hidden bed, and he stared at the white curtains, seeing shadows of the figures beyond it. He could make Draco out, curled in on himself on the bed, and there was someone else looking after him at the foot of the bed. “What about Merricamp?” he asked after several minutes of silence.

Ron sighed. “She’s gone. When Kingsley bested her in their duel, she Apparated out of there and took the wards down with her. It’s a good thing she did, or you would have died. He’s disappointed, though, really wanted to bring her in. We think she’ll be gone for a long time, if she even comes back. Everything was killed or got away except for a litter of Crups, and we’ve got them in the office to look after while we figure out what to do with them. They’re evidence.”

Harry watched the shadow-figure on the bed grasp at its head, and he ached to reach out; he settled for closing his eyes for a moment. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“I think you’ve done your part, mate. It’s up to him now, isn’t it?” Ron paused, long enough for Harry to turn his head and look at him, and he frowned when their eyes met. “Is this going to be a thing now? You and Malfoy? It’s all right if it is, I just…I’d like to know so I can steel myself.”

Harry blinked in surprise. “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t exactly talked to him about it, have I? Ginny’s only been gone a few weeks, and I’m not even really sure how I feel about the whole thing. People do mad things when they’re being rescued in life-or-death situations. It’s just easing out of the whole ‘or-death’ bit now, I think.”

Ron nodded his head and pushed Harry’s hair out of his eyes. “Okay. Just—if you’re going to not do it, be sure to let him down easy. He’s mad for you, life-or-death or not. Everybody who’s been in here has seen it, even Ginny.”

Harry hadn’t thought he’d ever see the day when Ron was worried about Draco’s mental health, and he stared oddly at him for a moment before the curtain behind him was drawn back, and a tiny woman nodded in Harry’s direction before leaving the room. Harry turned his head and saw that Draco was lying on his side, facing away from them with the blankets pulled over his shoulders. His breath was slow and even, and the empty vial on the table between the beds read ‘Dreamless Sleep’; Harry heard Ron excuse himself from the room, and he waited until the door was closed before he cleared his throat. “Are you asleep yet?”

Draco rolled over and looked at Harry, his eyelids heavy and his cheeks blotchy. Again, he looked as though he were going to splinter into pieces at any given moment, and Harry bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood. “Do you want to pull our beds together?” He didn’t know where the question came from, and he smiled weakly at him.

“Yes.” Draco’s voice was ragged and sick, and he took his wand from the table between them. With a flick of it, he slid it across the floor to the opposite wall, and he pulled himself out of bed for a moment to roll his own across the floor until it touched Harry’s. When he climbed back into it, looking so ridiculously small in his hospital gown, he lay on his side facing Harry and stared at him. “I’m seeing Healers.”

Harry opened his hand, and he blinked when Draco grasped it so hard that it hurt. “Good,” he said. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I was trying. It was so stupid, that I didn’t think to look in Pansy’s le—”

“Please.” Draco’s voice broke on the single word, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, don’t talk about it.” His eyes didn’t open again; Harry could practically see the cogs in his mind trying to force the memories away, and he squeezed his hand back.

“Okay,” Harry whispered, not needing to ask why. He stroked his thumb over the back of Draco’s hand, and he didn’t say anything else as the creases in Draco’s brow smoothed out. He was sleeping a moment later, the potion kicking in, and Harry wanted more than anything in the world to smooth his hair back and tuck the blankets in around him. Instead, he simply held his hand and watched him sleep as long as he could himself stay awake, regretting that he had ever left him alone.

*

When Draco first woke up in hospital, he didn’t remember much of anything that had happened. His eyes opened when a pair of Healers were crouched over him, touching him all over, and he’d screamed because he’d never been so repulsed by anything in his life as the feeling of strangers grabbing at him. They said that he’d suffered smoke inhalation and was severely malnourished, that he needed to spend time with a Mind Healer and all sorts of things that he wasn’t really listening to.

It was hard to breathe, and he was coughing. It hurt to move, and they shoved potions down his throat until it didn’t hurt any longer. That was as far as he let them go before he simply couldn’t take it any longer, and he sat up, demanding to be taken to Harry Potter.

He remembered that much, that Harry Potter’s face had come out of the smoke and he was safe.

Harry was injured, they said, severely injured and lucky to be alive at all. Weasley had saved them both in the end, and Harry was immobilised on the first floor in Creature-Induced Injuries. A dragon had attacked him, they said, and he was severely burned by the house collapsing in on them. Draco didn’t remember the house collapsing. He didn’t remember anything after the sound of his cage unlocking.

Draco left before he’d been properly treated for all the things they’d listed wrong with him, and he’d gone to the first floor to see Harry. It was immediately apparent why they had chosen to keep him in Creature-Induced Injuries even though his arm was bandaged and being treated; the sight of him on the bed, missing most of the skin on his back and his hair, blisters large enough to fill a drinking glass, made Draco so sick that he’d collapsed into the chair next to the bed and just stared at him.

This was his fault, all of it.

Harry had all sorts of spells on him that Draco had never seen. He was immobilised from the shoulders down, put into a magically-induced coma to prevent him from panicking, and put into some sort of mind-stasis that kept him from waking up from his coma. There was a bubble around most of his body that the Healers said sterilised everything that passed through, because such severe burns would gather infection like dung gathered flies. When the Healers left to let the spells meant to heal the skin do their work, Draco reached out and took Harry by the hand.

Harry Potter was a man of significant magic, everyone knew that. When he got angry, it crackled and sizzled in the room, making everyone feel alive and on edge; when he was as hurt as he was then, his magic was extremely reactive and fighting against what the Healers were doing. Potter didn’t do things by halves, he supposed, feeling magic crackling in Harry’s palm, and he clutched at his hand tightly before he did something that he had seen his father do for his mother when she was ill.

He reached within himself and offered forth his own magic to stabilise Harry as best he could. It was a painfully intimate gesture, magic mingling and reaching and tangling up, and it would have made Draco sick if it had been anyone else but Harry.

The world whirled around him in his focus, and he didn’t pay it any mind. Only one thing mattered, and it was lying on the bed in front of him, unmoving and horrifying. He could feel his own body protesting against the treatment, day in and day out, as he didn’t eat or sleep in favour of keeping Harry’s magic from fighting what they were doing to him. Harry had to get better as soon as possible, because Draco wanted to go home.

Ginny came once, and only then did Draco let go of Harry’s hand and take her in his arms. He wasn’t repulsed when she touched him, not in the least, and he buried his face in her hair and felt the emotions he’d been repressing surge to the surface all at once. He cried then, and she did, too. She apologised to him for making him feel alone, and she told him that she and Harry had finally broken it off. Harry hadn’t slept, she said, because he was only ever trying to find him and Merricamp; Draco wanted to sleep, then, but he couldn’t.

He was very grateful for Ginny Weasley, his friend. She was comforting and warm, and she had strength when he did not. She told him that he’d missed his birthday, so when Harry got out of hospital, she was going to take him to practise with her one day and let him ride her broomstick. She kissed him on the cheek and told him he was filthy, and he laughed until he was so tired that he couldn’t think. 

He told her what he was doing with Harry, that he was trying to keep his magic from going wild and mucking up the Healers’ spells, and she offered to do his job for him while he slept, but he told her that he would manage. She brought him coffee, and they ate dinner together in Harry’s hospital room.

When she looked at Harry, she didn’t look sad in the way that he would expect her to after breaking off a long relationship. She looked sad that he was hurt, but she looked happy to see him alive. When he asked her if the breakup was hard, she just shook her head and smiled, saying, “I think it’s better this way. We’ve both been over it for a long time. We can be friends because we’re better as friends than we ever were together.” Her mother, she said, was the one taking it the hardest, but they were all working through it and things would be just fine.

She was worried about him, though, and he loved her for that.

When she left, he took Harry’s hand again, and he fell back into working with him. It was easy to ignore the passage of time this way, losing himself in only the ebb and flow of magic. They strengthened each other this way, stronger together than they were apart, and only when he was touching Harry did he feel like the world wasn’t going to fall apart.

On the third day, the Healers came in and said they could start using a salve to hurry along the process. Draco hadn’t noticed them until they’d put their hands through the barrier and touched Harry’s back; there was such an upheaval of magic at the touch that it nearly made Draco vomit, and he pulled the Healer away. “Don’t,” he said shakily, and he reached out to take the salve from her. “Please, let me do it. Just tell me how.”

She was telling him how when Weasley came in, and he was following her directions when he was overcome with vertigo. He was weak and sick, he knew it, but he had to do his job. He felt his knees give way, and then there were hands on him that didn’t belong, and he’d turned to see Weasley holding him up.

He wanted to vomit.

“ _Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare fucking touch me!_ ” His voice sounded alien to him, his fists pummelling into Weasley’s stomach without any real force behind them, and he could breathe again when he was released. No one could touch him, no one but those he trusted, and he certainly didn’t trust Weasley.

They woke Harry up that afternoon, and Draco was right there for it.

Harry didn’t know what had happened, and Draco told him everything that he knew. Harry vomited from pain, and Draco cleaned it away without disgust. Then, he asked Draco to do something that Draco knew he needed to do even though he didn’t want to have anything to do with it: he asked him to see the Healers and start his treatments.

Draco looked into those pleading eyes, and he loved him, and he said that he would.

All of that led up to Draco’s position then, sitting on his bed in Harry’s—their—room after the first night of sleep he’d had in days. The Healers wanted to move him to Spell Damage so he could be around the Mind Healers all the time, but he wasn’t going to be moved. He would stay on the first floor, he said, because he couldn’t be separated from Harry Potter again so soon. Thankfully, his assigned Healer agreed with him, saying that leaving would be detrimental to his progress.

His Healer was a tiny woman that reminded him of Loony Lovegood, all blond hair and wispiness. They assured him that she was the very best, that the Auror Department had insisted on him having the very best care, and he trusted their judgment in the matter. The woman smiled at him, and she told him the things that he already knew.

“You were captured by Miranda Merricamp in May and taken to her menagerie in Lorrha, Ireland.”

“Yes.”

“You were placed under the Imperius Curse for much of your stay.”

“Yes.”

“Under the effects of the Imperius Curse, you were forced to perform sexually with a witch that you did not know in order to produce a Pureblood child.”

Draco’s voice caught. “Yes.”

“You were kept in a cage in the basement of the menagerie with a number of dangerous magical creatures when you were not fulfilling the suggestions of the Imperius Curse.”

“Yes.”

“You were rescued four days ago by the Aurors along with much of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. During your rescue, the witch with whom you were working was killed, and you escaped with Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter, both of the Auror Department.”

Draco nodded his head and drew his knees up to his chest on the bed, staring at his feet. His toenails were abnormally long, and he was still very dirty. He didn’t trust anyone to help him bathe, and he didn’t think he could manage it on his own yet without trying to drown himself in the bathwater. “Yes, ma’am.”

There were a few moments of silence while she made several notes on her parchment, and he watched the progress of her quill without expression. When she looked up again, he met her eyes briefly before he looked towards the window overlooking London. “All right, Draco. I want you to know that nothing we talk about will be discussed with anyone else without your consent. I also want you to know that I want you to be comfortable here. I expect honesty. If you want to recover, then you need to be open with me so we can work through what’s happened. Is that all right?”

He nodded his head, and he hugged his knees. “I’ll do my best.”

She smiled at him, and he breathed a sigh before he lay back against the pillows and fidgeted with his hands. She watched him quietly for a few moments, then asked, “How are you feeling, Draco?”

It was a difficult question, and he chewed on his lip. “Anxious,” he said. “I’m not feeling all that well. I didn’t want to see a Healer until Harry was better, but he asked me to when he woke up. I’m so nervous here that I feel like I’m going to be sick all the time.”

“I think that’s understandable. Why didn’t you want to see a Healer?” she asked. He was grateful that she wasn’t taking notes as he spoke.

“I don’t know. I don’t like being around strangers right now.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck and pulled his blankets up over his legs, feeling cold. “When I was under the Imperius Curse, I had to touch a stranger all the time. I’m afraid that someone is going to touch me and I’m not going to be able to control it. Weasley grabbed me yesterday and I punched him, and it made me want to vomit.” He shuddered.

She smiled at him and nodded her head. “I think that makes a lot of sense, don’t you? That you don’t want people you don’t know well touching you after all that? You were captured, Draco, and you were made to do things that you didn’t want. Would you be okay if I touched you now?”

“No!” He leaned back against the pillows, staring at her.

“I’m not going to. The other Healers say that you’re okay touching Mr Potter. Would you be okay if he touched you back?”

Draco shrugged his shoulders. “That would be all right. I trust him not to abuse the privilege.” He looked down at his hands and picked at his nails, even though they were clean. “Ginny Weasley is okay, too. I know she wouldn’t do anything, either.”

“So you trust them not to hurt you if they do touch you? Don’t you have a history with both of them that’s, well, unsavoury? Did that change when you were staying with them prior to your capture?”

Draco nodded his head. “Yes. We’re friends now.”

She smiled at him. “I’m glad. You need friends, Draco, especially right now. You should have as many friends as you can get, I think, after what you’ve been through.” Her voice was soft and gentle, and he felt soothed by it. He began to relax a bit, looking back out the window and stretching his legs out beneath the blankets. “What else are you afraid of, for your near future?”

He frowned, and he shifted in his seat. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, and he thought about it. “I’m afraid that I’m not going to be all right, that I’m going to go mental any time someone touches me. I won’t be able to go out in public, will I?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid that Harry will get better and send me back to the Manor, and I’ll have to be on my own there. I’m worried that I’ll be stuck in hospital for months. I’m worried that Madam will come after me again.”

His Healer did take notes, then, and he watched her do it with a furrowed brow. When she looked up at him again, she smiled, and he drew his legs up defensively once more. “I don’t think you’re going to be here nearly as long as you think. We don’t like to keep people in Spell Damage for longer than they need to be. You’re likely to be released when you’re ready to go, and you’ll be coming back a few times a week to spend some time with me for a few hours. You can stay wherever you deem best so long as you keep to our appointments. Does that sound good?”

Draco was relieved, and he felt his shoulders relax. “Yes, I like that.”

“Good. If you want, I can speak with Mr Potter to see if he will consent to let you stay with him during your treatment, though I cannot see how he will say no from what I’ve come to understand from my colleagues. You haven’t left his bedside since you came here, have you?” She looked towards the drawn curtain, where Harry lay beyond, and he shook his head. “I’m told he worked tirelessly on your case. He was very insistent on getting you home, Draco. I think that he must care a great deal for you, if he was doing that.”

Draco felt his cheeks colour, and he was briefly overcome by how tired he was. “One can only hope,” he said, and he laced his fingers in his lap. “You can ask him if you want.”

She made a note on her parchment then looked back up at him with a warm smile. “I will when he is closer to going home, if that’s what you still want then. As for Merricamp, the Aurors are quite sure that you are safe for a while. From what I understand, Mr Potter is breaking off his lease at the end of the month and looking for a new place to live. If you are going to stay with him, then you might consider discussing the use of a Fidelius Charm for your peace of mind.”

Draco nodded his head and picked at his hospital gown. “You think he will let me stay with him, then?” he asked.

“I can’t speak for anyone but myself, Draco, but I have spoken briefly with some of his visitors, and they seem to think that it was his plan to keep you when you came back, if you wanted to be kept. Above all, hope is going to get you through this. You have to have hope, even for the little things.” She smiled at him, and he nodded his head in agreement. “You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?”

Draco looked away sharply, and she laughed. “It’s all right, Draco. I couldn’t blame you for being fond of him; he’s a great man, and he’s done a lot for all of us, not just you. We all have great cause to be fond of Harry Potter. No one would judge you for it, least of all me. It’s not my place to judge you, I just want to help you.”

He sighed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we talk about something else?” he asked.

“Of course.”

They talked for an hour, until Draco was so tired that he couldn’t bring himself to speak any longer. He was glad that they spoke of inconsequential things after that; he told her about his childhood at the Manor, and about how he’d felt when he’d buried his parents. They didn’t talk about Harry again, but she said that she would be back again the next day. He learned her name, Healer Lora, and before she left, she offered him a vial of Dreamless Sleep potion with the promise of seeing him again the next day.

He drank the potion and slept hard. When he woke up, there were other Healers in the room, and it was mid-day. They looked after him without touching him, for which he was very grateful, and he ate a light meal before he went to check on Harry. 

That evening, Healer Lora came back, and he talked to her about Li until he cried. He told her about how Li had taken Amortentia and been absolutely obsessed with pleasing him, and how he’d never had the time or the willing partner with which to have sex before her. He talked about how he thought that maybe he was in love with someone else, and that he knew Li had been in love with someone, too, but she was dead now and the last thing she’d known was fear.

When she was packing her things to leave, he sat up from the bed and looked at her, shaking. “Lora,” he said, and he refused to meet her eyes, “do you think if I saw an Obliviator—”

“Draco, I don’t condone Obliviation in these sorts of cases. It’s a last resort.”

He pulled at the blankets and grit his teeth, vision blurred with tears. “I just don’t want to remember.”

“I’m sorry.”

She left him with another vial of potion, and he took it. It was dark by the time they’d stopped talking, and he heard faint movement behind him as he curled up in bed. “Are you asleep yet?” Harry’s voice was quiet and worried, and he rolled over to look at him. He pulled their beds together when Harry asked him to, and he clutched tightly at his hand until he slept.

*

The next few days were absolute torture for Harry, not only because he couldn’t move in his bed, but because his back was starting to itch. It was absolutely dreadful, maddening, but they told him that no one could scratch it or it would risk some scarring. They were all very sympathetic about his plight, but no matter how much he screamed and yelled and tried to smother himself with his pillow, they didn’t give in. Not even Draco.

Draco did strive to help as best he could, though, and Harry thought that he could have married the bastard whenever he picked up the jar of salve and rubbed it firmly into his back. Harry wanted to arch and groan as it soothed him, giving him brief respite from the itching, and when he grinned at Draco after, he never failed to make the man’s cheeks flush pink. Being in hospital really wasn’t all that terrible.

He was spending longer periods of time awake, and he spent much of it terribly bored. Ron came to see him all the time, and he told him about the licensing examinations that he was having to endure without Harry, and Harry wasn’t sorry to miss them. Kingsley had told Ron that he was happy to give him make-up examinations when he was finished, but Harry was undecided as of yet.

Not that he would tell Ron that, of course.

Sometimes Ginny came, and she tended to both him and Draco. He thought that she was probably coming to see Draco more than him, because they spent the hours she came together, sitting on his bed. She made him bathe on the first visit, sitting in the washroom with him, and Harry could hear Draco yelling at her to _stop looking, goddamnit_ over and over. It made him laugh.

Draco was talking to his Mind Healer, Healer Lora, all the time. He spent hours of every day with her, pulling his bed a few feet from Harry’s and drawing the curtains before putting up a Silencing Charm, and Harry just watched his shadow when he wasn’t talking to his friends. Draco always came out of his sessions with Healer Lora looking as though he’d been run over, but he told Harry that it was going well, that it was really helping. He was looking better every day, healthier, and sometimes he smiled in a way that told Harry that it would all be all right in the end. 

The nights were the easiest. Healers stopped coming in to stare and prod all the time, and Draco pushed their beds together. They held hands, though they didn’t always talk about anything, and neither one of them brought up the kiss in Merricamp’s basement. Harry wanted to, wanted to ask him why, ask if he meant anything by it, but the last thing he wanted to do was muddle about with Draco’s mental stability right then.

Draco always fell asleep first, squeezing his hand so tightly that Harry thought his fingers might fall off. Harry never complained, not even once, because those hands were the ones who rubbed salve into his itching back whenever asked, the ones that gestured wildly when Draco got excited, that poured the perfect amount of whiskey on an evening spent on the couch. They could do whatever they wanted.

Harry hadn’t really realised the full extent of his feelings on the Draco Malfoy situation until he’d burst into the basement and seen him in the cage. Now, staring at him every night as he slept and wanting more than anything to make him feel better somehow, he knew that he had it _badly_. For years, he’d been obsessed with Malfoy in one way or another, and now he was less than a foot away, and he figured he could have him if he said something.

It just wasn’t the time. This was enough for now, while they were recovering.

A full week after Harry woke up for the first time, the itching was significantly better, and they told him they could take off the spells immobilising him. Draco gave him a smile that could have stopped traffic, and Harry filed the moment away for the next time he needed to cast a Patronus. “Now, Mr Potter, please understand that even though we’re taking off the charms, you need to avoid lying on your back or scratching it. There is still some scabbing, and the skin is very new, so it’s going to be sensitive. You don’t want to do too much to exert yourself, since we had to mend your spine, and you still shouldn’t wear a shirt while you’re here. If everything goes well, we don’t see why we can’t let you go in a few days.”

Harry beamed at them, and he waited impatiently as they began the counter-charms keeping him still. The moment they were gone, he turned and sat up, stretching his arms over his head and wincing at the new pain that movement brought him. Still, it was bearable, and he got to his feet to approach the mirror in the room. He hadn’t seen the extent of his injuries, after all, and he was extremely curious.

He turned and looked at his back in the mirror, and he gaped. From the look of it, his burns had covered most of it, taking much of his hair with it. The fresh skin was very pink and splashed across his back like paint, and he was dotted with brown scabs that looked like a skin condition. Some of the fresh skin was more progressed than the rest, and it had faded to stark white in comparison with his uninjured complexion. “Is it going to stay pale like that?” he asked, voice quiet.

The Healer hummed in thought and shrugged. “We’re not sure. I suspect that you wouldn’t want to try to tan for several years, and it might darken some on its own, but I wouldn’t count on it. You were very severely burned, so you’re probably going to bear some permanent discolouration. We’re just happy that the skin itself should be smooth, despite what happened to it.”

Harry sucked in a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He was mostly bald in the back, though the hair had started to grow back, and he made a face; Draco hadn’t been joking when he said that Harry wouldn’t be winning any pageants. He looked ridiculous. “I think it’s an improvement,” Draco said from across the room, seeing him fussing with it, and Harry laughed.

“I think I’ll send Ron to find me a potion to get it to grow back, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. I think you could start a new trend. Burn chic.” Draco smiled at him, and Harry wished that the Healer would make herself scarce. She did not; instead, she came over and gestured to his arm before she unwrapped the bandages, and Harry got to see the damage the Peruvian Vipertooth had done. There was a set of four thick, black scabs running down his bicep, and he sighed.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “at least now I can ask which one people mean when they ask if they can see my scar.” Harry wasn’t particularly vain, never had been, but this was certainly a blow to his ego.

“I think these are more interesting anyway. You got the one on your head when someone died for you. You got these because you were saving someone’s life.” His Healer’s voice was quiet, and he looked at her to see her smiling encouragingly at him. “So when they ask, you should show them your new ones, because you earned them yourself. You solved a case no one else could, and look what you’ve got to show for it.”

He hadn’t really thought about it like that, and he gingerly touched the scars on his arm before he smiled at her and nodded. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. Now, we’ll see about getting you a potion for your hair. We usually have something lying around for when someone gets burned and loses it.” She gathered her supplies and left the room, leaving Harry alone with Draco.

He looked over his shoulder into the mirror again, looking over his back. “It should be pretty interesting, in any case, don’t you think?” he asked. Draco walked over to him and looked at it, and he reached out to very nearly touch it; Harry’s back tensed at the near-contact, and he tried to catch Draco’s gaze. “It’s so sensitive, I can feel the heat of your hand.”

Draco’s eyes caught his, then, and they stared at one another for a moment. Harry was seized with the desire to reach out and touch him, and he did so; he turned to face him properly and placed both hands on Draco’s shoulders before he slid them up and around his neck, pulling him in and hugging him tightly. He was significantly shorter than Draco was, and he rested his forehead against his shoulder, feeling him tense up for a long moment before he relaxed and put his hands on Harry’s shoulders for lack of a better place to put them when he was injured.

He felt Draco’s chin rest against his destroyed hair, and he smiled. “Is this all right?” he asked, knowing how Draco had been so violent at the idea of people touching him. 

“I…It’s fine.” They were both quiet for a long time, and Harry listened to Draco’s breathing, not having realised before that moment how much he’d missed it. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at himself; how dreadfully teenaged-girl of him, but there it was. Draco broke the silence. “Harry?”

“Mm?” Harry didn’t lift his head, much too comfortable where he was against his bony shoulder. 

Draco shifted, and his fingers tapped restlessly against Harry’s shoulders. “What happens when you’re released?”

Harry did lift his head then, and he pulled back from the embrace to look up at him. “I suspect I’ll go home, won’t I? Have they said when you can go home? I have to pack everything pretty quickly and find a new flat, but—”

“Do I have to go back to the Manor?”

Harry blinked and frowned at him, and he shook his head. “…No? Why, do you want to? I thought I’d find a flat with enough bedrooms, three maybe. Ginny said that you might not want to be alone for a while, and I thought that made some sense, so I figured you’d want to keep staying with me for now.” He hadn’t thought that Draco might not want to stay with him once they got out of St Mungo’s, and that possibility was a harsh one to face.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief, and Harry did, too. “I don’t want to go back to the Manor,” he said, voice so soft as to be intimate. Harry was starstruck by his tone, and he looked up to meet his eyes. “I really don’t want to.”

“You, er, you don’t have to. You can stay as long as you want.” Harry bit his lip, and he wondered what would happen if he leaned up to kiss him right then and there. They shared a look that suggested Draco wouldn’t mind at all, and he cleared his throat. “Listen, I—”

The door opened and they sprang apart as though they’d been caught doing something awful, and Harry looked back to see Ginny and Ron staring at them; he felt a surge of guilt, and he must have looked it, because Ginny snorted and plopped down in the chair. “Good to see you up and about, Harry,” she said, and she looked over at Draco. Harry would have sworn that she winked.

Ron looked between them before he sat down as well, tearing open a paper sack and setting it on the table. “Yeah, well, it’s nice to be able to move,” Harry said, and he glanced at Draco before he went to the table and peered into the sack. “Did you bring me _real food_?” He reached in and drew out a foil-wrapped gyro, and he sighed. “You _did_.”

Draco came over and fetched one for himself as well, looking equally excited, and Harry grinned at Ron. “Sure did, mate. You two are starving to death on hospital food. I thought it would, you know, help the recovery process and all that.”

Harry and Draco sat together on the side of his bed, and Harry didn’t mind at all when they bumped elbows while eating, or that Ginny was looking at them all the while with a knowing gleam in her eye. She didn’t look angry, at least. That was a start.

*

“How is it going, Draco? You look much better.”

Draco was restless, standing by the window during his session with Healer Lora that day. Harry had been released from St Mungo’s two days prior, and he was eager to get cleared for release himself, but Spell Damage was reluctant to let him go. The Imperius Curse had lingering effects, and he found himself easily distracted at the best of times, so he was frequently woozy and got dizzy when he spent too much time on his feet. His memories were becoming ever-clearer from the days he’d spent under Merricamp’s influence, and they weren’t helping his emotional state. He didn’t want to remember Li like that. He didn’t want to remember _himself_ that way.

It had been easier when Harry was there. He’d spent the three days Harry was able to move just walking around the hospital with him, quiet in the background as Harry visited children and speaking with him when they went into the courtyard to smoke. Since he’d been released, he’d only been back once, and Draco hadn’t slept without Dreamless Sleep. He was worried that he was acquiring a dependency.

“I want to be out of here, if you must know.” He looked back at her. “I think I’m ready to leave. I can’t bear being in this place by myself. It makes me _feel_ sick.”

“Draco, you are. They wouldn’t want to keep you here if you were well enough to go.”

He slammed his fist against the stone wall. “I’m not sick like they’re making me feel. I’m tired of this place, and I feel like it’s impeding my ability to, I don’t know, move on or something.”

Healer Lora made a note, and he scowled at her. “It’s not my fault,” she said matter-of-factly. “Sit down, won’t you? If you’re doing better today, then I might be able to talk them into letting you go tomorrow, but you’re going to have to talk to me about what’s going on.”

Draco growled low in his throat, and he flung himself petulantly back onto the bed, scowling all the while. “Fine. Ask.”

She rolled her eyes, and he wondered if that was a part of Healer training, rolling eyes at patients. Setting her quill down, she leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees. “I will. Have you touched anyone yet that wasn’t Mr Potter or Ms Weasley?”

“I touched Pansy Parkinson when she came by. Hugged her for a minute at least.”

Lora nodded her head. “Very good, but you know that’s not what I mean. You and Ms Parkinson are close, yes? What about anyone else?”

Draco fidgeted in place, and he frowned. “No. I haven’t been particularly keen on trying, if you want to know the truth of it.”

She sighed, and he felt guilty. “Can I touch you now?” she asked, and he gave a start. “Not a hug or anything, just a touch. You’re going to have to get used to people casually touching you. It happens all the time when you leave this place, you know that.”

He wasn’t comfortable, not at all, but he knew that he had to get there. Healer Lora wasn’t going to cast the Imperius Curse on him or try to jump him, he knew that; she was a real professional, and there was no reason he shouldn’t trust her. He swallowed hard and took a sip of water before he nodded his head, and he reached out a hand to her.

She got up from the chair, ignoring his hand, and she went to the bedside to rest her hand on his shoulder. He jumped at the initial contact, but he didn’t draw away from her. He didn’t even want to vomit, that was a change. He looked up at her, and he smiled hopefully; he was happy to see the smile mirrored on her face. “Wonderful, really wonderful, Draco. You’ve gone most of your life without anyone hurting you when they touched you, or forcing you to do something. You should think of Merricamp and Li as outliers. It doesn’t have to be like this, you know. It’s okay, letting people in, or even just letting them pass by you.”

Draco watched her hand as it slid off his shoulder, and he knew that she was right. It was just going to take time. People had been so careful with him since they’d figured out that he didn’t want to be touched, everyone but Harry and Ginny. Ginny hugged him goodbye every time she visited, and he was comforted when she did it. Harry had held his hand every night save for the last two, and he’d been comforted by that, too; even when Harry hugged him, he hadn’t been worried about anything except how to hug a man that was healing.

Weasley hadn’t tried again. Smart man.

Healer Lora sat down at the foot of his bed, and he smiled at her, as though letting her touch him was going to be the extent of their work today. She smiled back at him, and she asked, “Have you had any sexual feelings since you were rescued?” as though it were the most natural thing in the world to ask him.

He sputtered indignantly. “Wh-what?!”

“You know, urges or anything like that.” She had her parchment in hand again, and he stared at her.

“What the bloody hell does that have to do with anything?”

She looked up from her parchment and frowned slightly, and he drew his knees up, something he hadn’t done since their first sessions. He was comfortable around her, but he didn’t know that he was _that_ comfortable. “It had a lot to do with all of it, Draco. You were raped, and that sort of thing has a lasting impression on the sexual urges of victims. You need to be aware of any sexual feelings you have, and you should encourage them, if they’re healthy.”

He knew that he was blushing, which was mortifying in itself, but he really didn’t want to talk about this. Knowing that he had to, however, was enough to press him on. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been a particularly sexual person. By the time I was old enough to have an active interest, I was too busy being a Death Eater, and then the war happened and I was put on probation. It’s hard to do a lot of seduction when you’re locked up on your property.”

Lora glanced at the Dark Mark on his arm; he didn’t try to hide it from her. “That’s true, I suppose. You said that Li was your first, right?” She looked at him and lifted an eyebrow. “Are you interested in any of your friends that way? Ginny, Pansy?” She paused, and Draco bit the inside of his cheek. “Harry, perhaps?”

Draco stared steadfastly at his lap. “I suppose so,” he said, hardly above a mumble, but she wrote on her parchment anyway, and he wanted to crawl in a hole. “Mostly before. It’s hard to feel anything sexual when you’re stuck in a sterile room.”

She looked up. “Nothing since you were put under the Imperius Curse, then?”

He shrugged and thought about it. “Maybe once since. He, er…” He trailed off and cleared his throat when he trusted himself to speak again. “He hugged me the day they let him up. I thought maybe something could happen then, but Ginny came in. They just broke up a while ago, and it would be a bad time, wouldn’t it? I’m completely mental, and he’s coming off a three-year relationship. That’s got disaster written all over it.”

Lora wrote again, then she reached over to touch his foot; he didn’t even jump that time. “Have you talked to him? He’s very fond of you, I think. He asks me how you’re doing every time I see him in the corridors, and he seems very invested in whether you’re getting better or not. He told me on his way out that he was going to find a good flat for you to share. Are you excited about that?”

“I haven’t talked to him about it, no. I don’t think I’m ready.” Draco chewed on his lip. “I would be more excited about it if I knew when I could leave.” She gave him a hard look, and he backed down. “Yes, I’m excited about it. I want to get out as soon as I can because we’re going to decorate the flat together, and he’s got truly awful taste, so I have to do most of it. If he gets started without me, it’s going to have to be all torn apart.” He smiled, and he looked out towards the window. “He told me that he’s recorded all of my favourite television shows, at least the ones before we landed in here, so we have to catch up.”

“He did that, did he?” she asked, and she was really smiling, then. He shifted in his place and felt a flutter in his stomach. “That was very kind of him.”

“I thought so. I told him to buy me a whole case of wine so we can make a proper marathon of it while we decorate. I could use a drink, after all this, but none of you will let me have one. I’m lucky to have a smoke.”

She laughed, and he felt immensely grateful for her in that moment. She had spent weeks with him, listening to him cry and rage and scream, and now sometimes she got to hear him laugh, too. She’d cried right along with him sometimes, and he really was feeling much better than he had when he’d first woken up, so now they laughed a little together. He’d told her during their first session that he had to have hope to lean on as he recovered, and though he knew that there was a long road before him, he thought that she’d made it all that much easier. He did have hope, and he saw it in her and in Harry, even in his growing friendship with Ginny. 

“I’ll see what I can do about it, then. Honestly, Draco, I think you’re loads better than you were when we started. You’re going to have to come in every day for a while, at our usual time, but I think that the hospital means to release you. I agree with you, I think that being out of here and in the real world will help you progress much more quickly than sitting in here will. You have to move on with your life.”

He bit his lip then grinned at her, and he touched her hand with his foot. “Thank you, Lora,” he said, and he meant it.

“Don’t thank me yet. We’re not even close to finished. You’re going to be meeting with me for at least a year, though it won’t be every day after a while. When we’re finished, you can thank me, and I’ll expect some oak-matured mead for Christmas every year.” She winked, and his heart soared.

They let him go the next morning.

*

Ginny came to visit Harry and Draco the week after Draco had gone home. She was excited to see Harry’s new flat, which Draco assured her was the most wonderful thing to ever have existed, and when she walked into it, she found that she agreed. It was large and inviting, with an open floor plan and three bedrooms, and there were paint buckets everywhere. Harry had purchased it outright, and it had been empty for a while, so they’d let Harry go on and move in while the paperwork was finalised.

It was sparsely furnished at the moment, though she recognised the couch from their old flat as well as the television set sitting in front of it on the floor. A DVD player was hooked up to it, and she smiled when she heard Rachael Ray’s overly-familiar voice instructing the proper way to stuff a chicken.

Draco was in the kitchen, paint on his nose, and he was wearing denims that she was sure belonged to Harry. They showed a great deal of ankle, but the splatter of paint on them and the holes in the knees made them look comfortable, and she didn’t blame Draco for wanting to wear them. “Hello, Draco. Where’s Harry?” she asked.

He looked up from the Daily Prophet and sipped at his glass of wine before he smiled at her. “He went out with specific instructions to purchase a set of pots and pans that aren’t from the Stone Age. Red, I think.” He gestured around at the kitchen walls, which were freshly painted in a colour that hugged the border between red and brown that she couldn’t hope to name.

“Yes, I think so.” She sat down across from him at the table. “How are you doing?” He looked much better, happier to be out of St Mungo’s at the very least, and she was happy for him.

He raked a hand back through his hair, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, you know. I’m adjusting. I’m working off a Dreamless Sleep dependency, courtesy of Healer Lora, so I’ve been up all night painting, and I’m still not tired. I’m hoping the wine will get me there.” He lifted his glass to her and smiled.

She laughed, and she poured a glass for herself from the box. “Cheers.” She winked and touched the rims of their wine glasses together before she sat back down and drank with him. “I’m really glad you’re back and getting better. I know Harry is, too.”

She got a wistful look on her face, and she sighed, unable to keep from smiling at him. For months, she’d seen them grow from mortal enemies to friends with the promise of something more, and if Harry didn’t do something eventually, then she was either going to take matters into her own hands or try to snatch Draco up for herself. She thought that he and Harry would have looked nice together, and though there was a pang of jealousy in her stomach when she thought of Harry with anyone else, it was significantly less intense when she put Draco in that position.

Harry really cared about him, and so did she despite her better judgment. She thought that maybe, in a different world, the three of them might have been happy together, but Molly would have had a litter of kittens and Ron would have outright killed Draco. He was having a hard enough time coming to terms with the fact that Harry looked over the moon every time Draco was in the room. She wondered if they even realised it about one another.

They must, she reasoned. The day she and Ron brought gyros to St Mungo’s, she’d have bet a number of Galleons that they’d interrupted a moment. “You’re pining, Draco.”

He jumped and glared at her over the rim of his glass. “I’m doing no such thing, Weasley. You keep your eyes to yourself.” He was blushing and giving his wine a look that would have wilted flowers. At one time in her life, it would have incensed her; now, it made her laugh.

“Does he know yet?” she asked. “I know you kissed in Merricamp’s basement, but that’s different, isn’t it?” Oh yes, Ron had told her and Hermione the night he’d come back from the raid. She hadn’t been angry, only indifferent. Given time to think about it, however, she found that she really didn’t mind at all. It would probably be a good thing if it happened again, for both Harry and Draco.

He fidgeted in that way that let her know that they hadn’t even talked about it. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t know, he might. It doesn’t matter, though, does it? I don’t want to be anyone’s rebound, and I’m still pretty fucked up in the head. Not sure I could handle it, to be honest with you, not yet.”

She felt sorry for him. Ron hadn’t had a shred of decorum and had told her and Hermione what had happened to Draco when he was captured, and Ginny really didn’t know how to talk to him about it. She supposed that that was what Healer Lora was employed to do, but she wanted to reach out to him all the same. That was something that friends did. “Well, don’t do anything you’re not comfortable doing. I don’t think anyone’s in any rush for anything to happen. Harry hasn’t gone back to work yet, has he?”

“I don’t think he’s going to. He’s been talking about how he’s ready to wash his hands of it, and I don’t blame him. His first big raid, and he nearly gets killed? He’s permanently scarred, his relationship fell apart, and he blames himself for me getting caught. Maybe he needs some time to figure out if that’s what he really wants to do.” Draco had clearly given this a lot of thought. It made her smile, and she nudged his foot under the table.

“Are you going to be disappointed if he’s not an Auror, after all?” she asked.

He looked aghast. “Are you mental? No. I think if I play my cards right, then I can sucker him into taking me somewhere in August. You know, for my mental health.” She laughed, and he smirked into his wine glass. “My probation is up once Shacklebolt processes it, so as long as I don’t murder anyone before then, I should be expunged, and we could go anywhere. I was thinking that I’d like to see Tahiti.”

“I’m sure you would.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Are they still making you go before the Wizengamot?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s just going to be shoved quietly under the rug, Shacklebolt said. He’s making sure of it, since I helped solve his pet case. I don’t want to be all over the Prophet, and I’d rather just get on with everything. Going to court isn’t going to help with my nerves.” He poured himself another glass of wine, looking comfortable despite the fact that he was covered in paint and his hair was a complete disaster. Would wonders never cease?

She would have liked to see Draco relaxing on the beach in Tahiti, though, holding an oversized drink with an umbrella, and she smiled. “If he won’t go to Tahiti with you, then I’ll go once the season starts. I have a week a month without any practises, and I could work on my freckling. You could get a tan, maybe.”

“You’re on, Weasley.” He grinned, and he looked up when the front door opened. “Well, there he is. He’s been at it all day. I was starting to worry that no one in London carried red pots.”

Harry appeared in the doorway a few moments later, and Ginny couldn’t help but smile at how harassed he looked. Laden with bags and packages, it seemed that he’d been to every store in London and purchased something from each; she got up and caught one of the packages before it slid off the top. “Bit of shopping, Harry?”

“Hello, Gin. Are you getting him sauced?” He shoved his merchandise on the counter and stole Draco’s wine glass, taking a large drink of it and pulling a face. “That’s vile. You’re supposed to chill it.” Draco stole his glass back and took an unseemly gulp.

“I am,” Ginny said, and she went to the counter to start opening the bags and parcels. “Harry, this is all very lovely. Did you have help?” He’d purchased a full set of kitchen things, not just pots and pans but cutlery, dining sets, and kitchen tools, all in red. She couldn’t name half of the tools he’d purchased, and she knew they were for Draco so he could stop whining every time he saw something on Food Network that he wanted to do.

“I went to about twenty shops before I found all of it,” he said. “It all matches, too. I wasn’t going to come home with anything that didn’t match, because I’d never figure out where I got it from.”

“You did a bang-up job.” She turned to face them again, and she was struck by the picture they made. Harry was leaning over Draco’s shoulder and pointing at something in the Prophet, and Draco’s head leaned slightly in his direction. They looked for all the world as if they’d been doing this sort of thing their entire lives. Draco glanced up and caught her smiling, and he glared in warning. “Yes, well. I just wanted to drop in and have a look at the place. It’s nice, Harry. You aren’t making Draco do all the work, are you?”

He looked ruffled at the suggestion, and he looked accusingly at the counter full of new dishes. “Not by half. He spends most of the day lying on the couch, moaning at the telly and raving about Healer Lora. She cooked him a zucchini loaf on Wednesday, and I think we’ll be eating walnuts for months.”

“Who knew, right? _Zucchini in bread_. It’s absolutely mad,” Draco piped up, and he got out of his chair, walking to Ginny and hugging her for a long time. She blinked at him, and she wrapped her arms around him.

“You all right, Draco?” she asked quietly when he rested his chin on top of her head.

He snorted. “Oh, I’m fine. Healer Lora says that I have to be more demonstrative with my friends before I’ll be comfortable with strangers touching me. Don’t think that I like you too much or anything.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Besides, you had the courtesy to not get into a snit over the wine not being cold, so you probably deserve a hug for that.”

She laughed brightly against his shoulder, and she patted his back. “I definitely do, yes.” She stood on tiptoe and cupped her hand around his ear. “Listen, Mum wants to throw a birthday party for Harry at the Burrow in two weeks, at the weekend. Keep it a secret, but Hermione is looking for some help arranging it, and I thought it could help, you know, keep your mind off things.”

He nodded and kissed her between the eyes; she pulled away, sputtering, and she swatted in his direction. “Geroff. I’m leaving before you get even more disgusting. Good luck keeping the terms of your probation, Draco; you’re likely to murder someone before the week’s out if you don’t get any sleep.”

“I’ll try.”

She waved to Harry, who was regarding the pots and pans with some dread, and she left them to it. It wouldn’t be long, she figured, before one of them cracked.

*

Harry liked having Draco home.

The new flat was great when he was in it on his own, but he hadn’t been allowed to really touch anything, and so he’d simply set up his bed and stared at the boxes he’d hastily packed. He didn’t like going to St Mungo’s even to see Draco, since he got so upset when he left that Harry had felt guilty for leaving him there the entire time. 

It had all seemed so empty before Draco had come back, and then everything was a whirlwind of activity. Healer Lora had visited the night before the release and told Harry that he needed to help Draco keep his mind off of things while he was at home, needed to help him get comfortable, so they’d set immediately to working on the new place. Draco had ideas for every room, and Harry had gone to fetch paint swatches of all colours from a nearby home improvement shop so he could spread them on the floor and debate with himself over it. He wanted a red kitchen, a green living room, and he wanted his own bedroom to be a soft, calming blue. Harry decided on a warm brown for his own bedroom, and Draco had been jealous of the choice but insistent that they couldn’t possibly be the same colour. 

They hadn’t even moved on to furniture choices, and Draco was talking about hiring an interior decorator for that, because he insisted that he didn’t know anything about furniture that wasn’t centuries old and in need of new upholstery. The Manor had apparently been a den of such.

He did like colours, though, and Harry wanted to oblige him in any way he could, not only because he was completely mad for him, but because he wanted him to be comfortable. This was their flat, not just his, and he knew that giving him what he wanted in decoration would deflect tantrums later.

Every day, Draco went to see Healer Lora. Some days were easier than others, he thought, because Draco would come in asking about dinner and grab up his paintbrush with a smile. Other days weren’t so easy, and he closed himself in his bedroom for the rest of the night. Healer Lora gave him assignments, and Harry was as accommodating as he could be regarding them.

His assignments varied day-to-day and week-to-week. He had assignments for each day, and a larger one that encompassed the whole of the week. One day, he’d invited Ron over through the Floo and shaken hands with him for five whole minutes, his face stark white the whole time. “Lora asked me to start touching people I knew but wasn’t comfortable with usually,” he explained. He repeated the process with Hermione, then again with Fleur and Bill, who’d been visiting Ron with Victoire. It had been hardest with Bill, who not only looked dangerous, but whom Draco didn’t even know beyond word-of-mouth.

Another day, he’d come home later than usual and looking absolutely dreadful, but he didn’t lock himself in his bedroom. He asked Harry to sit on the couch with him then, and he leaned against Harry’s shoulder in relative silence for a while before he told him how he felt about Li’s death. He thought it wasn’t fair, that she should have lived so she could go back to her fiancé in China, and he said that he wished that he could talk to her while he recovered. He’d sounded very alone, and Harry held him there on the couch until he slept. That had been an assignment, too: open up to Harry about what upset him most during that week’s sessions with Lora.

Sleeping in separate bedrooms wasn’t going particularly well. Draco had a hard time sleeping regardless, and he said that doing so alone terrified him beyond anything; Harry didn’t want him to be dependent on having someone with him all the time, so he would sit with him until he fell asleep. Sometimes he read a book and kept him company in silence, and other times, he’d tell him stories from school and from the Dursleys. Even when he was a nervous mess, Draco’s wit never dulled, and he was wont to argue with Harry over details of his school stories. According to him, he’d seen things a little differently than Harry had.

They were getting better, both of them; Harry’s physical recovery was going well enough that he could shower properly, and Draco shook hands with a stranger in a coffee shop his second week home.

It was driving Harry mad.

If it had been hard to be away from Draco and missing him, then it was a thousand times harder to live in the same house with him and get to look at him every day. They hadn’t come so close to kissing as they had that day in St Mungo’s, which he figured was a good thing because he would have been uncontrollable. He was having his own problems sleeping, because he woke up from fevered dreams of his housemate at least once a night; it took every shred of self-control he possessed to not go and wake him in the middle of night.

It couldn’t be like that, though. If he did that, then it would have come off badly, and he was certain that Draco would be repulsed. This was a situation to be handled with delicacy. 

He really was going to lose it, though.

“Harry, wake up.”

It was the end of the second week Draco had been home, and Harry was having a lie-in when he felt the mattress dip next to him. He sucked in a long breath before he opened his eyes and squinted up at Draco in the morning light streaming from the window. He was perched on the side of the bed, holding something close to his face as he curled his feet beneath himself; Harry shoved his glasses onto his nose and saw that he was reading a piece of parchment. “What time is it?” he asked, voice gravelled.

Draco looked over at him and frowned before he murmured, “ _Tempus._ It’s ten-thirty. Why are you still in bed?” He shoved the parchment he’d been reading at Harry’s face, and Harry took it in hand. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and yawned before the words started to register.

_Mr Draco Malfoy,_

_The Wizengamot has found that you have satisfactorily filled the requirements of your probation. In accordance with your sentence, your record is expunged, and you are free to seek employment and living arrangements as you see fit. All restrictions have been lifted._

_I have personally ensured that the Daily Prophet won’t have access to the details. They are likely to comment if they see you out and about on your own, but that is your concern from this point forward._

_You can find the transcript of the Wizengamot’s decision in the Records Office at your leisure. I won’t bore you with the details._

_Hoping you are well,_

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_

Harry lowered the parchment and smiled up at Draco. “Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” he asked, and he reached out to pat his arm. “You don’t have to get me to go shopping for you anymore.”

Draco grinned at him, clearly proud of himself, and he folded the letter with care before he lay it on the nightstand. “I shall. I don’t know how to pick ripe melons.” He pulled at the corner of the blanket, and Harry moved over in bed to make room for him to climb in. He did so, lying in Harry’s warm spot and curling up on his side to face him. “Three years felt like forever when I was eighteen. I don’t think it really was all that terrible, being locked up in the Manor and then in the old flat.”

Harry reached out and pushed a lock of Draco’s hair out of his face. “When you were eighteen, you’d have hung yourself before you admitted that living in Potter’s flat was anything but torture,” he pointed out. “I think I’d have helped you do it, too. Couldn’t have you saying mental things and ruining my reputation.”

Draco snorted and put on the best haughty face he could manage in his position, curled up on Harry’s mattress. “I say mental things all the time, Potter. I’m certifiable now. I’ve got a therapist and everything.” He said it like it was a point of pride, and Harry rolled his eyes.

“You’re not. Besides, you get better every day, don’t you? It’s been over a month, and you’re already shaking strangers’ hands and making nice with Ron and Hermione.” He nudged him with his elbow. “You’re doing a damned fine job of it, even Healer Lora thinks so.”

“Well if I’ve got your approval, what else do I need?” Draco asked sarcastically, but he was smiling in that way that was entirely new to Harry since he’d started smiling again. It was an odd mixture of pride and bashfulness that he didn’t quite know how to interpret, but he wanted to see it all the time.

“Don’t you know? I’m Harry Potter. My approval’s the highest mark in Britain. You’ve gone and peaked early; it’s all downhill from here.”

Then Draco was laughing, really laughing, and Harry lost all sense. He lifted his hand and pushed his fingers into Draco’s hair, and the laughter died in the instant before Harry surged forward and kissed him full on the mouth. The absolute, all-encompassing stupidity of what he’d done struck him immediately, and he froze, staring into shocked grey eyes and waiting to be shoved back.

The shove never came, and Harry’s brain ceased functioning altogether.

Draco relaxed all at once against him, and Harry didn’t even think to ask before he reached out for him to pull him close; Draco melted against him and his eyes fell closed. Harry felt every moment he’d stopped himself from doing this come rushing forth all at once, and he brushed his tongue over Draco’s bottom lip. It was met immediately, and hands were sliding around to his sensitive back to hold him close, and it was very nearly too much for Harry to take.

His fingers curled around the nape of Draco’s neck as he tried to get as close as he possibly could to him, tangling their legs and rubbing their bare feet together. He could hear someone’s breath hitching, though he wasn’t sure whose it was, and what little air there was between them was hot and sticky with nervous sweat. He thought that he’d never had such a marvellous idea as kissing Draco Malfoy while he was laughing, as pulling him in and teasing his tongue and biting onto his bottom lip; when he drew back to catch a proper breath, the look in Draco’s eyes seemed to suggest that he was in full agreement. 

What he said next had to be perfect. They were staring at each other, and his hand was shaking in Draco’s hair, and whatever he said had to be poignant and worthy of a kiss like _that_. His heart was pounding, violently loud to his own ears, and he knew that the next moments would either make or break everything between them.

Draco was staring at him, eyes slightly wide, and Harry felt cool hands on his chest. It was Draco that broke the silence then, his voice uneven and low. “How can you be so sure?”

The question was odd at the surface, but Harry thought that he might have known what Draco meant. The fact of the matter was, he wasn’t sure, not in the least; he was terrified, and he was coming off an old relationship, and Draco was in therapy. There was no way that this would be good for either of them. How _could_ he be sure that this was really what he wanted? “I’m not,” he said truthfully.

It wasn’t the right thing to say, that was immediately evident as something in Draco’s eyes shut off. Harry scrambled to recover. “I mean, I’m sure of some things. It’s all fucked, isn’t it? I don’t want to take advantage of you, and it’s not as though I’ve really had a lot of experience, you know, with, uh.” He gestured vaguely at Draco. “Men.”

Draco stared at him, and Harry started to open his mouth again before a hand was clapped over it. “Merlin, Potter, you’re a fucking idiot,” he said. “You don’t go around kissing men when you don’t even know if you like them. You don’t just fucking _do_ that, not even if you’re Harry-fucking-Potter.” He looked angry, and he did push back against Harry then, hard enough that Harry grunted and Draco was able to get the leverage to push himself off the mattress.

“Wait—”

“I’m going out. I have an assignment.” Draco’s voice was flat, and he strode imperiously for the door. He glanced back at Harry with narrowed eyes, pausing in the doorway. “I’m not some fucking porcelain doll, Potter. If you want something, you have to fucking mean it. I’m not going to fall apart because of _you_.”

Harry stared at him, silhouetted in the doorway, the lines of his body angry and tense. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never _mean_ to do anything, Potter. That’s the fucking problem.”

 

 

Draco had to get out of there.

He felt dizzy and sick with anger, a thousand thoughts hitting him from all sides. _Potter kissed you. Harry kissed you. Harry kissed you and he doesn’t even know if he likes you. He kissed you and it was what you wanted, and you were probably wrong all the while about him._ None of it was fair, not really. He was in love with Harry Potter, and all he wanted to do was turn around and go back home, to crawl back into bed.

He couldn’t do that, though, because he wasn’t going to have his emotional state compromised just because Potter didn’t know what the fuck he wanted. Healer Lora was going to get an earful about this.

Draco wasn’t a romantic person, he never had been, but he thought that maybe he knew what people meant when they said that some kisses just felt right. That one had. In the moment, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine himself anywhere but where he was; in the moment right after, he wanted to be anywhere else. 

He left the flat and walked out into the street, the first day he’d been allowed to do so alone in years, and he turned his face to the sun. It was a smack in the face that he was so angry on such a lovely summer day, when the sun beat down hard on his skin and warmed him. It should have been raining. It was fucking _London_.

He didn’t know where to go, so he slipped into an alley and Apparated to the first place he could think of: Weasley’s house. He didn’t want to see Ron or Hermione, naturally, and so when he pounded on the front door, he was relieved to see that Ginny opened it. “Draco,” she said in surprise. “Is everything all right?”

“No, it bloody well isn’t.” He didn’t even ask to be let in, pushing past her and into the house. It was small and cosy, but Granger seemed to have some taste in decoration. That was a surprise. He looked back at Ginny. “Are they home?”

She shook her head. “Ron’s at work and Hermione went to see her parents. I’ll just get your something to drink, shall I?”

“Please.” He watched her disappear through a doorway, and he sat down on the couch with a gusty sigh. It was probably a terrible idea to come air his grievances to Potter’s ex-girlfriend, but she was the closest friend that he had nowadays, and he didn’t think that she’d be too upset about it.

When she came back, she sat down on the couch next to him and pushed a glass of ice water into his hand. “Harry fucked it up, did he?” she asked, a knowing smile on her lips. “He’s good at that, you know. What happened?”

Draco sipped from his glass before he set it on the table and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Everything was going fucking fine until he just up and kissed me out of nowhere. He’s not even bent, Ginny. Obviously. I asked him if he was sure that was what he wanted to do, and he said no. How did you fucking stand him?”

Ginny snorted at him and leaned back on the couch. “He might be a little bent, Draco. He’s been mooning over you for ages, even if he didn’t know that was what he was doing.” She paused to take a drink for herself, then leaned back and regarded him curiously. “What is it you’re expecting from him, if he is sure?”

Draco scowled. “How should I know?” he asked. “It’s me and Potter. There’s nothing about either of us that makes any of it a good idea, and that’s fucking terrifying because we already live together. I’m stuck in the house with him, and he’s doing shit like kissing me before he even knows what he wants to do.”

“But what do _you_ want to do? You can’t expect him to know if you don’t.”

She had a point, and it was completely infuriating. He glared at her for it, and he was annoyed that she laughed. “It’s not funny.”

Ginny leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder. “It’s a little funny. Draco Malfoy is in Ron and Hermione Weasley’s living room, bitching about how Harry Potter isn’t sure if he wants to love him or not. Snape is rolling in his grave.”

Draco softened a little, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. He rested an arm comfortably around her, and he leaned his head against hers. “You’re fine with it, too, aren’t you?” he asked. “Me bitching about Potter and his terrible timing? I could have come in the door complaining that he fucked me too hard, and you’d have made me a glass of water and offered some salve.”

“I might’ve.” She reached for his hand, and he let her take it. “Draco, listen. He’s a complete prat, and he’s never going to make any sense, but he’s sincere. If you can take that, then you should tell him to take some fucking time to make sure that this is what he wants, and maybe work extra hard with Healer Lora until he figures it out. I can’t blame him for being hesitant. You’ve been through a lot; anyone would be hesitant about falling into bed with you after that.”

He scowled. “I’m not touched in the head. I don’t equate him with anything that happened in Lorrha except the part where he fucking saved my arse. He’s not going to Imperius me and make me fuck him,” he said forcefully.

“You’re right, he’s not. I think that’s a very good way of looking at it, Draco, and you should keep that in mind. I don’t think you should rush right into bed with him even if he _is_ sure, either. Take it slowly and all that. You don’t want to think that you’re doing well and then ruin any of your therapy by going too quickly.” Her voice was calming, and her logic was sound; he turned his head and kissed her hair. “I think you should tell him to give it serious thought, and I think you should follow your own advice. Well, my advice, but you should tell it to him.”

Draco made a face and reached for his glass of water. “I have given it serious thought.”

She pulled back and looked up at him with a disappointed frown. “Have you really? Because being with Harry is going to be really obnoxious, you know that? Take it from me. He’s absent-minded and forgets important things, and he always puts work ahead of everything else. He’s not all that great in bed, and I’m pretty sure he pisses in the shower. To top it all off, he tends to be emotionally distant, and he never says anything at the right time. It’s awful.”

Draco made a face. “He pisses in the _shower_?”

Ginny nodded her head firmly. “Once when I was in it.”

“Do you need a cuppa? I don’t know how you lived. You must be traumatised.”

She laughed, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “I lived through it, believe it or not. I don’t know, Draco; much of that might have been because he was unhappy in our relationship, but I just don’t know. Being with someone else is always a toss-up. If you think that you can handle it, then go for it. I warned you properly, after all, and you know that I have the best intentions here. I think you’d be lovely together if he could pull his head out of his arse.”

Draco sighed deeply and wanted to take a nap, impossibly tired from the morning’s events. “You really think he’s bent, then?” he asked quietly.

Ginny cleared her throat. “Ah, yes, I think he might be a bit. He talks in his sleep, you know, always has according to Ron. You were a feature of his chattering since you two went to the concert. It was rather indecent.”

Draco groaned and leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling in silence for several minutes. Ginny didn’t seem to mind, simply sipping her water and sitting with him in quiet companionship, and when he broke the silence, she simply looked at him. “Are you sure that you’re all right with this?”

Ginny smiled at him and nodded her head. “It’s been a long time in coming, Draco, but I’ve seen it for a while. I’ve come to terms with it, and I rather like you both. I’d like to see you happy. If you make each other happy, more’s the better,” she said, and she nudged him. “Tell him to think about it, and stop worrying. You’re going to get a crease in your forehead, and we have a party to plan this week.”

Draco rubbed irritably at his forehead, making her giggle, and he nudged her back. “Fine. I’m a free man now, you know, so we can go to lunch and work it all out. Granger’s helping, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

He groaned. “Wonderful.”

He spent much of the early afternoon with Ginny, helping her cook lunch and then going out to the garden to spend some time in the sun. He was dreadfully pale, and she was amused enough by the possibility of him freckling that she kept him out until after three to try to see if he did. He did not, as it turned out, but he did have a glass of wine and it settled his nerves.

He kissed her cheek when he said goodbye, and she hugged him before sending him on his way with promises of meeting him the next day. He Apparated directly back into the flat, and he heard a plate shatter in the kitchen. “ _Fuck. Reparo._ ” Harry sounded agitated, and that brought Draco some sadistic pleasure.

“I don’t think that’s how the incantation goes, Potter,” Draco said, his voice a slow drawl as he walked into the kitchen to see Harry with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, making eggs on the stove.

“Potter again, is it?” Harry looked over at him from the corner of his eyes, his posture tense. “You’re sunburned. Where did you go?” He didn’t move from poking at the eggs, not even to retrieve the mended plate from the middle of the floor.

Draco picked it up for him, setting it in the sink before standing next to Harry at the stove. “It’s always been Potter when you’re being a prat, which is _usually_. And I’m not sunburned, I’m flushed with the day’s activities. Malfoys don’t sunburn.”

Harry reached out without turning and poked at Draco’s cheek; it hurt, and Draco recoiled. “You’re burned. There’s a salve for it in the potion cabinet, if you want to keep from peeling.”

“Malfoys don’t peel, either.”

There was a moment of tense silence between them, and it had Draco on edge. It felt as though it had been quite a long time since Harry was angry with him, and he didn’t have to wonder why. He probably shouldn’t have left that morning, he knew that. Ginny had said as much herself; Draco wondered if maybe Harry wasn’t the one who needed to see a Mind Healer for his anger issues.

He was the one who finally cleared his throat. “Look, _Harry_ , I should have stayed, but I needed to clear my head. I went to talk to Ginny—” Harry dropped his fork and turned to look at him with horror in his eyes. “—and I wanted to work some things out. I did, so.” He gestured vaguely between them.

“You thought it was a good idea to run and tell Ginny everything?” Harry asked, staring at him as though he’d grown a new head. “What the hell would possess you to think that that was a solid plan?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not a complete tosspot like you are; you can talk to her about things and she listens well enough. Besides, she had a fucking point. You’ve got to give this thing some serious thought before you just muck about and kiss me like it doesn’t matter if you do or not. It doesn’t work that way, all right?”

Harry picked up his fork again, and Draco had a wild, irrational fear that he was going to get stabbed with it. He sucked in a breath and steadied himself on the counter, watching as ash fell off the end of Harry’s cigarette. “…All right?” he pressed.

It didn’t seem like Harry was going to answer him at first, and he wondered how angry Ginny would be if he just turned right around and went back to the Weasleys’. He could feel his cheeks burning with more than just sunburn as he fought the urge to reach forward and shake Potter by the shoulders until he gave him some sort of answer.

Harry reached over and turned off the burner, setting the skillet on a cool one before he put out his fag and turned to face Draco. “I have given it serious thought—”

Draco gestured violently and interrupted him. “No. No, I want you to give it serious thought _now_ , now that this has happened. I want to do the same thing, all right? I don’t want anything to do with it until we’re both sure that this is anything resembling a good idea. I can’t fucking take it being hard right now, okay?”

Harry’s angry expression was softening, and Draco wanted to tell him to forget everything he’d just said and cart him off to bed without another thought, but that was stupid and dangerous. He swallowed hard and wished that he had something to drink. “Okay,” Harry said, and he nodded his head. Draco felt so relieved that he thought his knees might give out. “You’re right, Draco. We should think about it.”

Draco took a step forward, and he wrapped his arms around Harry in a grateful hug, dropping his head onto the idiot’s shoulder and taking a deep breath. He felt Harry’s arms slide around him, and he felt a little less defeated than he had fifteen minutes prior. “Thank you. I think I’m going to need a few extra-long sessions with Lora. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You do what you need to do. We’ll work something out, one way or the other.”

*

Harry wasn’t an idiot. It was his birthday, and Draco wanted to go to the Burrow. Draco never wanted to go to the Burrow, hadn’t ever been, and so Harry had no illusions as to what they’d be doing that evening.

Draco was nicely dressed—likely too nicely dressed for a Weasley party—and Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off him. His shirt was jade green with the top button undone, and his trousers were grey and so well-fitted that Harry thought that he was going to be driven mad by the end of the night, keeping himself from ripping them off.

The past few days had been painful. He’d been thinking seriously about the prospects of what they were considering, just as Draco had asked, and he knew that it was what he wanted the more he thought about it. He’d never had any sort of relationship with a man, had never been interested in one before, but he didn’t think that anyone could really blame him for his interest in Malfoy. He was impossibly shaggable, intelligent, and more mature than Harry would have ever thought he might become. He genuinely enjoyed spending time with him, thought about him all the time, and he wanted to be with him. He really did.

Draco hadn’t said anything more about the kiss or the resulting talk, but he didn’t really act any differently towards Harry than he had in the weeks preceding it. They watched television in the evenings and decorated the apartment half-drunk, laughing at one another and listening to the wireless when the infomercials came on. Draco cooked, improving every day, and Harry shouted about the Prophet at him over breakfast. It was all wonderful.

Draco knocked firmly on the front door, and Harry heard footsteps inside. Molly opened the door and smiled warmly at Harry, reaching out and grabbing him up in a firm hug that made him feel warm and loved. “Happy birthday, Harry. Come in, won’t you?” She looked up at Draco, and to Harry’s relief, she smiled at him, too. “Hello, dear. Ginny’s been asking where you are for the past half hour, so you’d best go find her.”

Draco disappeared into the house, looking lost and somewhat terrified of the place; Harry, on the other hand, kissed Molly on the cheek and went into the den. Hermione got to her feet immediately and hugged him tightly, and he saw Ron, George, Arthur, Bill, Fleur, Neville, and Luna smiling at him from the myriad chairs and couches. “Happy birthday, Harry!” they said in unison, and he grinned at the lot. He really did love his family.

Parties with the Weasleys had been hard right after the war, but they were becoming easier as time went on. Those who were missing were certainly missed, but conversation was becoming easier and everyone smiled so much more than they had before.

Ginny and Draco came from the kitchen with alcohol, bless them, and they poured champagne for everyone in the room before settling in. Usually, Ginny took the spot next to Harry; this time, it was Draco, who was smiling and looking around the living room as though he’d never seen anything so curious. “You know, this place isn’t half as awful as I thought it might be,” he said quietly, and Harry elbowed him hard.

“Watch it, Malfoy.”

Thankfully, no one seemed to question Draco’s presence at the party, and they weren’t forced to endure questions or jabs. George seemed positively delighted by it, sitting at their feet and messing about inside a bag that had Harry nervous. “George, what have you got?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing to worry about, Harry, nothing to worry about. Ah!” He found what he was rooting for, and he came up with a black jar that he set on Draco’s knee. Harry felt him go tense next to him at the contact, but to Draco’s credit, he didn’t lash out. Instead, he reached out to take it in hand.

He inspected the jar and squinted at it. “This isn’t going to bite off my nose or anything is it?” he asked suspiciously. Harry thought he was quite right to do so, and he gave it a nervous look.

George laughed. “No. Gin told me you’re a free man now, Malfoy, so I figured a posh chap like you might appreciate some Scuff-Away shoe polish. Knowing what a spoiled git you are, I reckoned you’d get jealous of all of Harry’s presents and want one of your own.”

Draco looked somewhat charmed, and he smiled at George even though Harry was certain that George had lied. “Of course, thank you. You always were the least objectionable of your brothers.” He looked at Ron pointedly, and even Harry laughed.

“Glad you appreciate it. You know, since you get on well enough with Harry and Gin, I could use some help at the shop. Get you out of the house, make a couple of Galleons, prank some students—it’s as good as it gets, mate.”

Draco stared at George, and so did Harry. He knew that George had been looking for help for a while, but he wouldn’t have expected him to ask Malfoy. Thinking about it, he supposed that it made perfect sense; they’d get to terrorise one another properly in the name of the joke shop, and it would help Draco loosen up. He glanced over at Ginny, who was listening in on the conversation between them and smiling. She must have said something to George. Harry caught her eye and gave a single nod. She winked.

“I…all right,” Draco said quietly, and he nodded his head slowly. George gave a cry of triumph and clapped him on the knee; Draco didn’t even tense up when he did it. Harry grinned shamelessly at them both.

By the time Harry had spoken to everyone in the room and been informed no less than five times that Charlie had been too busy in Romania to be able to make it back, dinner was ready. Molly had made a full feast, and the dining table groaned under the weight of it; Harry sat between Draco and Luna, who was chatting happily with Neville about Wrackspurts in a speech he’d heard a thousand times in school. He caught Draco’s eyes, and he got a warm smile in return.

“They’re really not all that horrible, are they?” he asked in a low voice meant only for Draco.

“No, I suppose not.” Draco nudged him with his knee, and he left it leaning against him as they all tucked in.

Molly was never one to disappoint, and after no less than three helpings of dinner, they were all stuffed to the gills and talking together. Weasley gatherings were always loud and exciting, and it wasn’t made any quieter when Ginny ran to the kitchen and came back with an enormous cake. It was magically iced, with Harry’s name written across it in loopy script and a tiny Gryffindor lion running about on the icing.

They began to sing, and Harry looked around at all of them. He loved every single one of them more than he was able to express, and he took a deep breath when, after the song, Draco leaned in and said, “Make a wish, then.”

Harry didn’t even have to think about what he wanted to wish for before he did so, and he shut his eyes to blow out the candles.

After they’d eaten as much cake as they could manage without making themselves sick, someone turned on the wireless, and Harry decided that he needed some fresh air. He excused himself for a moment and stepped out the front door, looking up at the night sky and wandering into the garden. Gnomes were fighting in the bushes, and he could still hear people enjoying the party inside the house, but it was peaceful all the same. He took a drink from the champagne flute in his hand then fumbled for a cigarette, lighting it and taking a long drag of it.

“Good idea, I think.” Draco’s voice was pleasant and quiet so as to not disturb the peace, and Harry turned to smile at him. He offered him his Muggle lighter and lit the end of his cigarette for him. “They’re rowdy, aren’t they? I couldn’t hear myself think.”

Harry snorted and nodded his head. “It gets worse. Wait until they’re all here. Soon there’ll be children in the mix, too, and no one will ever hear anything in the Burrow again.” He nodded towards the house. “Are you having fun, at least?”

Draco came to stand beside him, and he tilted his head back to look at the stars. “More than I would have imagined. My parents always told me that the Weasleys lived in a pig sty. I think that it’s charming, myself. There’s all kinds of room out here to fly, isn’t there?”

“Oh, yeah. They play Quidditch all the time out here. No goal hoops, but it’s a good time.” He looked over at Draco, the soft light from the windows shining orange on his hair, and he wanted to touch him. “We should go flying again. It was fun when we had our Seekers’ game.”

Draco looked over at him and smiled. “You’re so eager to be stomped into the ground again, Potter?” he asked playfully. “I can oblige you, I suppose. Not tonight, I’m much too full. Soon, though.”

Harry grinned. “You’re on. I have to regain my honour somehow.” He took a long drag of his cigarette. “Did you and George talk about when he wants you to start working?”

“Next week sometime. He says I can come whenever I’m ready.” He took a deep breath of the fresh air and nodded his head as though bracing himself for it. “I’m going to come home every day with something wrong with me, I can tell. I heard him muttering to Ron about how he was going to work on some hair product, and he was eyeing me all the while. If I come home ginger, I hope you won’t kick me out.”

Harry sputtered and laughed. “I’m used to gingers,” he assured him, and he was rewarded with a grateful smile. It warmed him like whiskey would, flowing through his chest and settling in the put of his stomach. “Draco?”

Grey eyes turned to meet his, and they looked at one another for a long moment. He could see that Draco was worrying the inside of his lip with his teeth, and he flicked his cigarette into the grass and stepped on it before he reached out a hand and put his thumb over his mouth. “I really do love you quite a lot,” Harry said quietly. “I have for ages, I think.”

Draco breathed out a sigh, and he threw down his own cigarette before stomping on it. “Thank god,” he whispered, and then he was coming forward, and Harry buried his hands in his hair as his champagne flute fell to the grass. He stood up on the tips of his toes and pulled Draco into a kiss that he didn’t even pause to question.

He crushed his lips against Draco’s and closed his eyes, his breath leaving him in a rush as warm hands slid over his back and grabbed at his shirt. His blood rushed in his ears, excitement thrumming through his veins as he flicked his tongue over the seam of Draco’s lips and felt them open; he leaned his whole body against Draco’s and felt the hands on his back tighten to keep him steady even as their tongues brushed together and Harry couldn’t even think.

Draco made a soft sound in the back of his throat and he pulled away a fraction of an inch, breath coming hard and his pupils dilated. Harry’s fingers curled in his blond hair and he smiled at him before he glanced to the side to make sure no one was staring at them through the window. No one was, and he slid a hand down to pull one of Draco’s from around him before lacing their fingers and tugging him into the shadows of the garden.

Draco laughed when Harry fell into the grass and pulled him along, upsetting a pair of gnomes that seemed to have the same idea, and Harry pushed him back against the ground. He leaned over him, just looking at him for a long minute. “You’re going to ruin my shirt,” Draco whispered as though he really didn’t mind much at all; Harry unbuttoned several more of the buttons and swung a leg over him, straddling his narrow hips and leaning forward to rest on his elbows. “It’s very expensive.”

“I don’t give a toss what I do to your shirt,” Harry said matter-of-factly, and he brushed the tips of their noses together. “Would it be inappropriate to just spend the rest of the party out here?”

Draco shook his head minutely, and Harry kissed him again. He hadn’t been so excited to be snogging anyone since he was sixteen, and he could feel his arms shaking with his own weight before he gave up and lay completely atop him, hands sliding down Draco’s sides and resting at his hips. He tangled their legs together shamelessly and suckled at Draco’s bottom lip until he got a quiet moan out of him; he broke away from his mouth and kissed his way along that aristocratic jaw, biting at the lobe of his ear and feeling Draco’s hands dig into his back.

“You’re sure, then?” The words were spoken against his ear, and he couldn’t help a smile. He lowered his chin and kissed a trail to Draco’s clavicle, feeling him squirming beneath him, before he pushed himself back up and looked him in the eyes.

“Deadly sure.”

Long fingers threaded into his messy hair as he bent back down to drag his tongue over the curve of Draco’s neck, and he heard Draco gasp sharply when he bit down just beneath his ear. A leg lifted and curled around his waist, and the hand in his hair jerked him roughly upward before he was being kissed so hard that it nearly hurt.

Draco was a clumsy kisser, but what he lacked in experience, he more than made up for in enthusiasm. He curled his tongue around Harry’s and bit at his lower lip until it was swollen, and he ground his hips upward until they were both gasping and pawing at one another’s clothes. Harry wasn’t sure what he was going to do with Draco once he got him naked, but he was certain that something would come to mind.

He managed to get Draco’s shirt fully undone, and he smoothed his palm firmly from his chest to his navel, craving the heat of him even in the sticky summer evening. Draco pulled Harry’s shirt over his head and threw it to the side before pulling him back down; their teeth clacked together, and they winced and laughed and it didn’t matter. Draco’s nails were on his back, and he felt gooseflesh rising in their wake as they scraped across his shoulder-blades.

He was so in fucking love with Draco Malfoy, and he got to have his birthday wish so quickly it was almost instant gratification. Every bit of it was absurd, and it thrilled him beyond anything that he might have imagined, and he thought that in that moment, he’d have been able to cast the most powerful Patronus in the history of magic.

He abruptly stopped kissing Draco, who opened his eyes and looked up at him in bewilderment, hair a tangled mess in the grass and lips entirely too swollen for anyone to not suspect them later. His cheeks were flushed, and Harry could feel his cock straining against his leg in unbuttoned trousers; it was obscene, and it was everything he wanted. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

Draco grinned at him, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d remain daft forever, but look here. Harry Potter’s worked something out for himself. May wonders never cease.”

“It had to happen sometime,” Harry said, and he took this time to catch his breath and wish that they hadn’t tossed their champagne aside in their fervour to get their hands on each other. His eyes raked over Draco’s chest, and he smoothed the pad of his thumb over a peaked, pale nipple.

“What are you even doing?” Draco was smiling at him, looking content and sweaty. Harry leaned up and kissed his chin, getting a laugh out of him.

He cleared his throat. “I’m talking sense into myself so I don’t suck your cock within hearing range of my entire family,” he said, biting his lower lip. Draco sucked in a breath, and he glanced between them as though he meant to argue, but he nodded his head.

“After the party, then?”

Harry swallowed hard. “Yes, I think so, if you want.” He slid his hand between them and palmed Draco through his trousers, hearing his voice catch. “I don’t know how you’re going to go back inside this way, though.” Draco’s fingers curled more tightly into his back, and he leaned in to kiss him again as though it would help matters even as he pushed his hand into Draco’s trousers.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry.”

Harry so very rarely heard Hermione swear with any conviction; this was, perhaps, what made it so effective when she chose to do so. Harry grunted and shifted his weight, sitting up on Draco’s thighs and turning his head to look at her, standing with her arms crossed and a severe look on her face. He reached up a hand to right his glasses, which had gone askew on his nose, and he lifted an eyebrow to her in challenge. “What?”

“I realise it’s your birthday and this is, in all senses of the word, _your_ party, but if you don’t mind taking your hand out of Malfoy’s pants for a minute and pulling yourself together, everyone’s waiting for you to come in and open your presents.”

Draco lifted up onto his elbows and looked decidedly put-out; Harry fought down the urge to laugh. “All right. We’ll be in.” He waved his hand at Hermione, who gave them both an exasperated sigh before she turned on her heel and headed back towards the door. Harry looked back down at Draco and smiled. “Think you can manage?”

“Do you think they’d mind if I took a cold shower?” They both laughed then, and Harry rolled off of him into the grass.

“They might.” He reached for Draco’s shirt and offered it to him as he sat up, and he watched Draco’s hands move quickly over the buttons to do them up. He ran his hand through blond hair to tame it before he pulled his own shirt back on and willed his cock down.

There was no getting around the fact that it would have been obvious what they were up to in their absence, as he’d left a lovebite just visible at Draco’s collarbone, and their lips were swollen. “You look very thoroughly snogged,” he said, and he was rewarded with a smirk.

“George did say that I should expect presents. This makes two. I’m beating you already, Potter, and at your own birthday. You’ve really got to step up your game.”

Harry pushed himself to his feet and smoothed his rumpled clothes before he offered a hand down to Draco, who took it and pulled himself up. He stumbled into Harry and Harry kissed him once more, lingering and soft. “Just as long as you don’t always expect to come out on top. Wait a moment.” He looked down. “Why have your shoes gone blue?”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean? And my shoes are not—fucking _George Weasley_!”

Harry grinned mischievously at him and let his hand go, collecting the champagne flutes from the grass and heading back to the house with Draco following behind, demanding explanations and not getting a single one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story continues in the Epilogue.


	5. The Thrill of the Hunt: Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Draco Malfoy is named the last surviving pureblooded wizard in Europe, a mysterious underworld trader and collector known as M. takes an interest in adding him to a true world-class collection of dangerous magical creatures. Harry Potter must juggle the last of his Auror training, a failing relationship with Ginny Weasley, and a growing issue with alcoholism while managing to keep Draco from being captured and trying to follow a decades-old trail which will lead to the identity and location of M. before it's too late.
> 
>  **Book Featured:** Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

***Epilogue***

_We have perhaps a natural fear of ends. We would always rather be on the way than arrive. Given the means, we hang on to them and often forget the ends._

_Eric Hoffer_

_July 2003_  


Draco let out a breath he hadn’t been holding and stared up at the ceiling, slicked in sweat and sticky in ways he didn’t want to think about. His hands slid off of Harry’s back when he rolled off of him and onto the mattress, panting, and Draco turned his eyes to him. “You going to make it?”

“Not sure,” Harry said weakly. “I’ve got to quit smoking.”

Draco snorted at him and shook his head. “Don’t you dare. I like it when you smoke.” He reached for Harry’s discarded shirt on the floor and used it to mop up the cooling mess on his belly before he threw it at Harry and received a squawk of indignation in response. “I’ve got to shower. You’re making me late.”

“Go get it started, I’ll come in, too.”

Draco got out of bed and stretched his limbs, standing on the tips of his toes and ignoring the appreciative looks he was getting from the mattress. He lingered only a moment for effect before he padded barefoot into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the shower, testing the water before he stepped into it.

Today was his last regularly-scheduled day with Healer Lora, and he was, admittedly, nervous. He had seen her every day, sometimes twice a day, for months after he and Harry had been released from St Mungo’s. Then, he’d been scaled back to three or four times a week, then once a week. Now, he knew that it was time for their regular appointments to come to an end, and that was nerve-wracking.

The spray of warm water was a relief even on his heated skin, and he looked directly into the stream to let it wash over his face. He heard the shower curtain being pushed back, and he smiled at the feeling of Harry’s warm hands on his shoulders. “Can’t I ever take a shower on my own?” he teased, spitting out the mouthful of water gained when he’d spoken.

“That’s just wasteful, you rich git. People in Africa are in dire need of clean water, and you want to take two showers? Absurd.” Harry’s voice was warm and comfortable against his ear, and Draco leaned back into his chest.

They’d been together for nearly a year, since Harry’s birthday, and it had been anything but easy on either of them. Having lived for years as rivals created habits that were hard to break, and they squabbled over every little, insignificant thing. Sometimes Draco thought that it would be easier to hex the prat and go back to the Manor, but he didn’t dare. There were some things that were worth the trouble.

He thought that Harry was definitely worth the trouble. He had been incredibly supportive throughout the healing process, patient in ways that Draco couldn’t have possibly hoped to be, and he was always there in any way that Draco needed him to be.

Some things were harder than others. He’d thought Harry would go completely mental before they were able to be sexual without Draco’s mind trying to shut down on them, but they’d weathered through that, too. Sometimes they drank too much and got into fights that lasted for a week, and Draco still had trouble with the real fights. He was more easily frightened than he had been as a younger man, and that was embarrassing in itself without Harry being right there to see him feeling as though he was falling apart.

Mostly, though, it was wonderful. They simply fit one another in a way that had shocked their friends, and when they were getting on well, he thought that there must not be anyone in the world who was so happy as they were. Harry’s friends were warming up to Draco over time, with Ginny and George’s influence.

He’d been working for George since the second half of August. He did a number of things around the shop: he kept up with owl orders, minded the till, terrified students who thought they’d get away with sneaking anything out without paying, and tested products. They had been fast friends once they’d realised that they weren’t schoolchildren any longer, and Draco didn’t think he could do without George any more than he could do without Ginny.

Ginny was his very best friend. She acted the part of confidante as though she was born to it, listening to him spill his troubles about work, Harry, and even his time in Lorrha. He and Harry had season tickets to the Harpies’ games, and Draco never missed a game even when Harry had to. The three of them and George were planning on going to the Quidditch World Cup together later in the month.

“You’re hogging the water.” Harry’s hands were on his hips and he opened his eyes when he was spun in a circle so Harry could stand in the spray. He made a face.

“I wasn’t. You’re hogging my shower.” He lifted his hands and ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, getting it wet properly and doing his best to ignore the stupid grin directed at him. “What are you doing today, then?” Harry had quit the Aurors without ever taking his licensing exams, and Draco was glad for it. Unemployment suited Harry well.

Harry’s arms snaked around his waist, leaning his head against Draco’s shoulder, and Draco rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I don’t know,” said Harry against his skin. “I was thinking I’d go check on George since you’re skiving off today. You do most of the work in the shop, you know.”

“I know,” Draco said with a smug smile. “He’s pants at owl orders, keeps sneaking in things to jump out when they open their parcels. It’s a wonder no one’s filed a suit.”

Harry lifted his head and squinted up at him. “Are you going to be all right going to St Mungo’s on your own?” Draco had informed Harry the day before that he wanted to walk to the hospital on his own for this, something that he hadn’t yet done. Harry took him everywhere he needed to go, even if he didn’t linger when he was there.

He knew that he didn’t have any reason to be worried about it, not really. Merricamp had released a statement soon after he and Harry had got together, saying that she was taking a long holiday in India. The message had been sent to Kingsley with her congratulations on a battle well-fought, and there had been evidence since that showed that she was indeed in India and displayed no signs of coming back any time soon.

Kingsley said that Merricamp relied on her anonymity to avoid being taken into custody; now that it had been taken from her, there was no way that she’d be able to operate on the same level she’d done before. Draco knew that he was safe for the foreseeable future, but he couldn’t help the nagging fear in the back of his mind, telling him that nowhere was safe but home.

He had to do this, even if he just did it once.

“I’ll be fine, Potter. I don’t need you holding my hand all the time.” He bowed his head and kissed Harry on the mouth, then smirked and ran his fingers over his neck. “You look as though you’re shagging a vampire. I don’t know why Ginny says you’re boring in bed.”

“I’m sure I was. I was bored myself.” Harry grabbed the soap and lathered up quickly before he rinsed and stepped out of the shower. “Don’t take long. Lora’s already going to be in a snit.”

Draco watched him wash up before he took the soap and did so himself, gathering his courage for his walk. When he was certain that he’d be able to manage, he stepped out of the shower and towelled off prior to going back to the bedroom and going through the wardrobe. “Potter, I insist on my own wardrobe. Your _things_ are all in with mine, and I’m afraid they’re rubbing off.”

“Maybe then you’d stop complaining about my fashion sense, if I caught some of yours.”

“You just need to see a tailor.” Draco settled on a pair of Muggle denims and a t-shirt, as the summer was scorching and the mere thought of heavier fabrics made him sweat. He pulled them on and took a comb to his hair before putting on socks and slipping into shoes. He turned and looked at Harry. “I’ll be all right, won’t I?”

Harry stopped digging through the wardrobe and met his eyes, and Draco bit his bottom lip. “Yeah, you’re going to be just fine,” Harry said quietly, and he came over to tuck a wet lock of Draco’s hair behind his ear. “I promise.”

Draco exhaled slowly before he nodded his head. “You’re right. I’ll just go before I ask you to take me, shall I?” He smiled apologetically, and he felt his shoulders relax some when Harry leaned in to kiss him on the lips.

“Good luck. Apparate to the shop afterwards, and we’ll all go get dinner in celebration.”

Draco nodded and fetched his wand from the nightstand before he gave Harry a lingering look. _I’m going to be all right. I’m going to come back home._ He finally lifted his hand in goodbye, and Harry waved back to him before he forced himself to turn away and leave the apartment.

It was absurdly hot outside, but Draco didn’t mind so much. The air was thick with humidity and it made his shirt stick to his skin so thoroughly that he cast drying charms on it three times, but walking alone was surprisingly easier than he’d thought it would be. His eyes did not linger on shadows or alleys, sticking to the people he passed on his way to St Mungo’s.

He didn’t recognise anyone, and no one gave him much more than a passing glance. One woman bumped into him, and he didn’t lash out at her or even jump; he helped her pick up the packages she’d dropped and wished her well. He could bear to interact with strangers now.

That had been one of the hardest things to work on for Draco; he had never been particularly good with strangers, not like his father had been, but Healer Lora and Harry had both insisted on it. Harry took him out all the time, taking him first just to parks and into the street, then later they were able to go to another concert together. In the packed Muggle underground club, the only touching he’d been concerned with was that of Harry’s hands and hips and mouth; he hadn’t lost it even once, and that was what had prompted him to tell Lora that he thought it was about time for their regular schedule to be terminated.

He dipped into a florist on his way, picking up a half-dozen yellow roses for her. Soon after, he stood before the door of her office, smiling and knocking. She opened it and smiled at him, graciously accepting the gift and conjuring a vase on her desk while he sat himself down in the familiar chair across from hers.

When she came to sit down, he leaned back comfortably in his seat and smiled at her. “Hello, Draco,” she said warmly. “How are you feeling today?”

He was relaxed, he was happy, and most importantly, he was optimistic. Everything was going to be all right. Newt Scamander had, in response to the backlash from Merricamp and the following media frenzy, made a public apology for the inclusion of Draco Malfoy’s name in the entry and had promptly removed the entire entry from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. He also made a donation to Li Gui Ying’s family to cover any costs incurred by her capture and subsequent death. Merricamp herself was gone for as long as they could figure, and Draco was feeling better every day.

He had a whole support system in place, extending to much of the Weasley family with Ginny and George at the head. There was always somewhere to turn, someone to ask for advice or a kind smile, and he didn’t feel alone any longer. He had them. He had Harry, and he had his own growing self-confidence.

He even had ideas for the future.

“I think I’m going to make it, Lora,” he said. “I think everything’s going to turn out just fine.”

She looked more than a little reassured by this statement, and she jotted down a few notes before she set her parchment aside entirely. “You’re ready to stop our scheduled meetings and just call in when you need to make an appointment, yes? I think you’re absolutely ready for it, Draco. You’ve been progressing faster than anyone could have expected.”

He grinned at her without shame, knowing that he looked as proud of himself as he felt. “Yes, ma’am. I walked here on my own today. Harry didn’t even follow me or anything. I wasn’t afraid of anyone, and I helped someone I didn’t know.”

Lora grinned right back at him, and she nodded her head in approval. “You have no idea how proud I am of you, Draco. I know that Harry and Ginny must be, too. The most important thing is that you’re feeling good about your recovery.”

“I am.” That hadn’t always been the case, of course. He’d taken a number of steps back even after leaps forward, and he still had the occasional nightmare. That was made bearable by a mixture of quiet, whispered words at three in the morning and careful doses of Dreamless Sleep, though he’d lost his dependency on it months before. Even the nightmares were coming less often, though he knew that they’d always come. “Everyone’s being really great about it, Harry especially. I don’t think I’d be able to do it on my own.”

Healer Lora chuckled and shook her head. “Recovery isn’t something anyone should try alone. Having someone to help you establish your routines and keep you level-headed is often the key to success, and you have several someones looking after you. That includes me, Mr Malfoy. You know that you can always come to me for anything, no matter how small it might seem to others. You’re my star patient.”

Draco had come to care a great deal for Healer Lora over the past year, which he supposed was only normal. She had been a constant in his life, seeing him more often than anyone besides Harry, and knew that he’d have never managed with a Healer who wasn’t as skilled and compassionate as she was. Nothing was off-limits in their talks, and her assignments had been strokes of genius. “You’re just flattering me,” he said in a teasing tone, but he did appreciate the sentiment, and he appreciated her laughter just as much.

“I’m not flattering you in the least, Mr Malfoy. So, tell me. Is there anything in particular you would like to talk about today, before I send you out into the world?”

Draco sucked in a deep breath, and he looked up at her after a moment before he nodded. “I think I know what I’d like to do. I’ve been giving it some thought, you know?”

“Well?”

He smiled at her. “I think I’d like to become a Healer.”

An hour after his arrival, Draco hugged Healer Lora tightly and thanked her for everything she’d been doing for him, even if their work wasn’t quite over yet. He knew that he’d schedule time with her, because he was far from finished, but it still felt like a goodbye of sorts. He was ready to take the next step.

Harry had told him to Apparate to the store, but he didn’t think that it was necessary. Instead, he took to the street once more and started walking towards the Leaky Cauldron, smiling at those he passed and feeling relieved. It was the first time since his fifth year at Hogwarts that he’d felt free to do anything in the world that he wished to do, all on his own.

When he arrived at the Leaky, he walked through the pub and into the alley at the back. Harry had shown him how to tap the bricks with his wand, and he did so before he stepped into Diagon Alley. It was lively with summer shoppers, and he walked down the centre of the street towards Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes; a year ago, he’d not have been able to walk there without drawing odd stares or glares from those who knew that he bore the Dark Mark. He was such a mainstay in the Alley now that shopkeepers and shoppers alike regarded him with nods and smiles, even if he wasn’t covering his shame with sleeves or bandages.

That would have stopped quickly, he thought, if they knew he was shagging and shacked up with their saviour. Everyone knew that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter shared a flat as roommates since the incident with Merricamp, but no one had ventured so far as to guess the true nature of it. He supposed that was all for the best, as the hate mail had trickled to nearly nothing, and any media coverage would have put an end to that.

When he got to the shop, he smiled when Harry met him at the door with Fortescue’s cones. “How did it go?” Harry asked.

“Swimmingly. Honestly, though, I’m starved. Who’s coming to dinner with us?” He licked his ice cream cone and sighed softly at the taste of mint; it really was his favourite.

“Ginny wants to come, I think. Hermione’s too busy with the baby, but I’m sure we could convince Ron if we asked him nicely.” Harry leaned up against the wall, looking back through the window to see George shoving some impressionable young ladies towards his love charms. “George needs to mind the shop. If you go in, you’ll never get out again. The rush for school has already started, and it’s not even August.”

“You’ve got to stock early, Potter.” Draco smiled down at him and touched his ice cream to Harry’s nose. “Would it be terribly rude of me to just ask you to come alone? I think I’d like to celebrate with just the two of us tonight.” He grinned as Harry tried to wipe the ice cream on his face away, and he didn’t even think about it before he leaned right over and licked it right off.

“I think that’s a perfect idea,” Harry said, wrinkling his nose and glancing away to see if anyone had noticed Draco leaning over to lick his nose. No one seemed to have taken much notice of them at all, and Draco could see Harry’s shoulders relax. “Where would you like to go?”

Draco grinned down at him and drew himself up. “The supermarket. I watched Rachael Ray this morning while you were still asleep, and I think I’d like to give a few recipes a shot.”

Harry tapped their cones together and nodded his agreement. “Brilliant. Shall we?”

Draco took him by the arm and grinned as he saw a reporter emerging from the Prophet headquarters, raising her camera; he twisted on the spot with Harry and Apparated before they could catch them together on film.

The reporters would come eventually, but nothing was ever unchanging for either of them, not any longer. In the meantime, it seemed best to revel in a moment’s peace; after all, they had so rarely achieved it.

_The best relationships in our lives are the best not because they have been the happiest ones. They are that way because they have stayed strong through the most tormentful of storms._

_Pandora Poikilos_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/64772.html).

**Author's Note:**

> Stories continues tomorrow with Chapter 2 and 3.
> 
> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/63565.html).


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